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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, i 



The Child Musician. 



FAVORITE POEMS 



FKOM THE 



BEST AUTHOES 



SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY 

amy Really 



POEMS FOE CHILDREN 



r MAY 11 1894* 



NEW-YORK 

E. P. DUTTON & CO. 

31 WEST TWEXTT-THIED ST. 
1894 






Copyright, 1894, 
By E. P. Dtjtton & Company. 



Press of J. J. Little & Co. 
Astor Place, New York 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

A Bird in the Hand is Worth Two in the Bush 

Poem# for a Child 180 

A Bird Story M. E. B. 114 

A Boy's Remonstrance Unknown 107 

Advice Anonymous 110 

A Flirtation Unknown 7 

Alexander Selkirk Unknown 132 

A Lie E. M. H. Gates 137 

A Little Boy's Troubles Carlotta Perry 99 

A Masquerade Unknown 178 

Among Green, Pleasant Meadows 

From the German of Herder 168 

A Mortifying Mistake Unknown 10 

A Naughty Girl Unknown 105 

An Impromptu Mary D. Brine 23 

Annie and Willie's Prayer Sophia P. Snow 224 

Answer to a Child's Question S. T. Coleridge 211 

Anti-Climax Richard E. Burton 232 

A Song without Words Mary Elizabeth Blake 4 

A Terrible Infant F. Locker 58 

A Word to the Wise Unknown 38 

Baby Fingers Mrs. Richard Grant White 147 

Baby Mine F. Locker 220 

Back Again to School Margaret E. SangsUr 30 

Beautiful Grandmamma Unknoicn 221 

Beautiful Things Unknown 73 

Bess and I Mrs. A. M. Tomlinson 130 

iii 



iv CONTEXTS. 

PAGE 

Boats Sail the River Christina Rossetti 194 

Casabianca Felicia Remans 97 

Chickens Rose Terry Cooke 89 

Child and Mother Thomas Hood 187 

Choosing a ]S T ame Mary Lamb 159 

Christmas Bells Unknown 216 

Cradle Hymn Dr. Watts 162 

Do Right Unknown 161 

Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog Oliver Goldsmith 31 

Entertaining Sister's Beau Unknown 26 

Foreign Children Robert Louis Stevenson 196 

Friendship Byron 160 

Going into Breeches Mary Lamb 204 

Golden Keys Unknown 122 

Good-night to Baby Thomas Bracken 234 

Grammar in Yerse Unlcnown 117 

Grandmother's Baby Margaret E. Sangster 9 

Grandpapa's Pockets Margaret Etynge 17 

Grown-Up Land Unknown 12 

How Doth the Little Busy Bee Isaac Watts 213 

I Like Little Pussy Jane Taylor 209 

Impromptu Verse Phillips Brooks 16 

Jack Frost Hannah F. Gould 177 

John Anderson, My Jo Robert Burns 23 

John Gilpin W. Cowper 45 

Kindness Unknoivn 80 

Lady Moon, Lady Moon Lord Houghton 176 

Legend of the Forget-Me-Not Unknown 72 

Let Dogs Delight to Bark and Bite Isaac Watts 202 

Lines Unlcnoum 131 

Little Bridget's Country Week Lucy Larcom 33 

Little Brown Hands M. H. Krout 192 

Little Things Unknown 171 

Love One Another Unknown 208 

Lucy Gray ; or, Solitude Wordsworth 155 

Lullaby of an Infant Chief Sir Walter Scott 86 



CONTEXTS. v 

PAGE 

Mary Had a Little Lamb Songs for Children 182 

Mollie's Problems John K. Bangs 64 

My Lost Baby Unknown 56 

My Mother Ann Taylor 200 

My Mother Says Mary R. Diefendorf 85 

My Neighbor's Baby Unknown 92 

My Neighbor's Boy Marianne Farningham 14 

Only a Smile George McDonald 141 

On the Landing Bret Earte 144 

Our Greatest Blessing Anna D. Walker 129 

Perseverance Unknown 197 

Plymouth Rock Arlo Bates 13 

Robin Redbreast William Allingham 210 

Room at the Top Unidentified 24 

Rosy-Cheek and Curly-Head Edgar Wade Abbot 28 

Seven Times One Jean Ingelow 150 

Slumber Song Unknown 3 

Snowflakes Unknown 118 

Stop, Stop, Pretty Water Mrs. Follen 151 

Teddy Mary D. Brine 218 

The Babes in the Wood Unknown 217 

The Baby Unknown 63 

The Baby's Prayer Adelaide Preston 67 

The Blind Boy Colley Cibber 158 

The Borrowed Baby Mrs. S. T. Perry 127 

The Butterfly Unknown 142 

The Charge of the Light Brigade Tennyson 95 

The Child and the Piper W. Blake 126 

The Child Musician Austin Dobson 2 

The Children's Bed-Time Unknown 101 

The Child's Prayer Hodges Reed 136 

The Clocking Hen Aunt Efiie's Rhymes 186 

The Coming Man Unknown 20 

The Day is Done Longfellow 153 

The Dog of St. Bernard's Unknown 212 

The Fairest Unknown 77 



vi CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Fairies of the Caldon-Low Mary Howitt 172 

The First Tooth Charles Lamb 83 

The Flower Tennyson 37 

The Heavy Brigade Tennyson 164 

The Johnny-Cake Unknown 183 

The Kitten and Falling Leaves Wordsworth 40 

The Land of Nod Robert Louis Stevenson 44 

The Last Day of the Year Alexander Smart 223 

The Little Arm-Chair Unknown 5 

The Little Boy's Watch Unkrtown 94 

The Little Mother Aunt Clara 116 

The May Queen Tennyson 69 

The Milkmaid Austin Dobson 58 

The Minstrel-Boy Moore 36 

The Minutes Unknown 207 

The Months Sara Coleridge 214 

The Moon Robert Louis Stevenson 66 

The New Baby Unknown 8 

The New Moon Eliza Follen 215 

The Night Before Christmas Clement C. Moore 123 

The Old Man in the Wood Unknown 87 

The " Old, Old Song." Charles Kingsley 82 

The Plaint of a Pessimist Unknown 81 

The Poppy-Land Limited Express. . .Edgar Wade Abbot 79 

The Rainbow J. Keble 15 

The Reason Why Unknown 1 

The Runaway ... - Unknown 29 

The Sea-Gull - W. G. R. 135 

The Seasons Unknown 181 

The Snow-Bird Frank Dempster Sherman 195 

The Sovereigns of England Unknown 199 

The Spider and the Fly Mary Howitt 189 

The Story of Eddy Emma Clayton Seabury 60 

The Sunbeam Unknown 142 

The True Story of Little Boy Blue Unknown 119 

The Two Boys Charles Lamb 194 



CONTEXTS. vii 

PAGE 

The Two Little Kittens Unknown 231 

The Wild Rose Goethe 25 

The Wind and the Moon George Macdonald 41 

Three Naughty Kittens Isabella Frances Bellows 112 

Tired Mothers Unknown 104 

To the Lady-bird Mrs. Southcy 18 

Truth Unknown 206 

Two and One Uiiknown 206 

Two Births Charles J. Sprague 74 

Two Kinds Wanted Unknown 62 

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star Unknown 198 

What I Live for Unknown 78 

What She Lacked Anonymous 65 

What the Baby Said A. H. S. 21 

When the Day Grows Old F. E. Weatherly 78 

Which is the Best? Unknown 139 

Willie Winkie ... William Miller 148 

Winter From the German 152 



FAYOEITE POEMS, 



THE REASON WHY. 

"When I was at the party," 

Said Betty (aged just four), 
" A little girl fell off her chair, 

Right down upon the floor ; 
And all the other little girls 

Began to laugh, but me — 
/didn't laugh a single bit," 

Said Betty, seriously. 

"Why not?" her mother asked her, 

Full of delight to find 
That Betty— bless her little heart !— 

Had been so sweetly kind. 
"Why didn't you laugh, darling? 

Or don't you like to tell ? " 
"I didn't laugh," said Betty, 

"'Cause it was me that fell ! " 

Unknown. 



FAVORITE POEMS. 



THE CHILD MUSICIAN. 

He had played for his lordship's levee, 
He had played for her ladyship's whim, 

Till the poor little head was heavy, 
And the poor little brain would swim. 

And the face grew peaked and eerie, 
And the large eyes strange and bright, 

And they said — too late — "He is weary ! 
He shall rest for, at least, to-night ! " 

But at dawn, when the birds were waking, 
As they watched in the silent room, 

With the sound of a strained cord breaking, 
A something snapped in the gloom. 

'Twas a string of his violoncello, 

And they heard him stir in his bed ;— • 

" Make room for a tired little fellow, 
Kind God ! — " was the last that he said. 

Austin Dobson. 



SLVMBER SOXG. 



SLUMBER SONG. 

Adown the twilight river we float, 

Baby and I together, 
Gliding along in our little boat, 

Baby and I together. 
Down to the wonderful land that waits 
Where the river flows through the sunset gates, 
While the silvery stars keep watch and ward 
As we drift beneath their loving guard, 

Baby and I together. 

To Slumberland our craft we steer, 

Baby and I together. 
Slowly, but surely, our port we near, 

Baby and I together. 
Where the Dream-tree spreads its branches wide, 
And scatters rare fruit on every side, 
Down the twilight riA T er we float along, 
While lapping waves croon a tender song, 

Baby and I together. 

A fair little head is drooping low. 

Baby and I together 
Gently into the harbor go ; 

Baby and I together 



FAVORITE POEMS. 

Have reached the shores of Slumberland, 
By whispering breezes softly fanned. 
Amid the fleet that are anchored fast, 
Hush ! we are safely moored at last, 
Baby and I together. 

Unknown. 



A SONG WITHOUT WORDS. 

"Play us a tune," cried the children, 

" Something merry and sweet, 
Like birds that sing in the summer, 

Or nodding o'er the wheat, 
Dancing across the meadows 

While the warm sun burns and glows. 
Till we fancy we smell in winter 

The breath of the sweet June rose." 

"Play us a tune," said the mother, 

"Something tender and low, 
Like a thought that comes in autumn, 

When the leaves are ready to go ; 
When the fire on the hearth is lighted, 

And we know not which is best, 
The long, bright evening coming, 

Or the long, bright days at rest." 



THE LITTLE ARM-CHAIR. 

And the dear little artist bending 

Over the swaying bow, 
Drew tones so merry and gladsome, 

And tones so soft and low, 
That we scarce could tell, who listened, 

Which song had the sweetest words, 
The one that sang of the fireside 

Or the one that sang of the birds. 

Mary Elizabeth Blake. 



THE LITTLE ARM-CHAIR. 

Nobody sits in the little arm-chair ; 

It stands in a corner dim ; 
But a white-haired mother gazing there, 

And yearningly thinking of him, 
Sees through the dusk of the long ago 

The bloom of her boy's sweet face, 
As he rocks so merrily to and fro, 

"With a laugh that cheers the place. 

Sometimes he holds a book in his hand, 
Sometimes a pencil and slate, 

And the lesson is hard to understand, 
And the figures hard to mate ; 



6 FAVORITE POEMS. 

But she sees the nod of his father's head, 

So proud of the little son, 
And she hears the word so often said, 

"No fear for our little one.'- 



: 



They were wonderful days, the dear, sweet days, 

When a child with sunny hair 
Was here to scold, to kiss and to praise, 

At her knee in the little chair. 
She lost him back in the busy years < 

When the great world caught the man, 
And he strode away past hopes and fears 

To his place in the battle's van. 

But now and then in a wistful dream, 

Like a picture out of date, 
She sees a head with a golden gleam 

Bent o'er a pencil and slate. 
And she lives again the happy day, 

The day of her young life's spring, 
When the small arm-chair stood just in the way, 

The centre of everything. 

Unknown. 



A FLIRTATION 



A FLIRTATION. 



I've been flirting to-day with a baby, 

In a window right over the way, 
And the neighbors are gossiping maybe ; 

But I don't eare a bit what they say. 

He's a dear little curly -lashed fellow, 
With eyes that are laughing and sweet ; 

His hair was like grain, golden yellow ; 

He'd blue shoes — for he showed me his feet. 

He threw me a kiss for a greeting ; 

He showed me the lace on his dress : 
But, oh ! Why are moments so fleeting? 

The time came for luncheon, I guess. 

Then I waved him good-by— oh, the saddest — 
And smiled to him over the way, 

And he looked of all babies the maddest 
When nurse came and took him away. 

But sometimes he will peep through the curtain 

And hold the lace edges apart, 
So I'll watch every day, for I'm certain 

That baby has broken my heart. 

Unknown. 



FAVORITE POEMS, 



THE NEW BABY. 

What strange little man can this be, 
So weird and so wizened and wise ? 

What mystical things has he seen 

With those wide-open wondering eyes'* 

What treasures untold, from what lands, 
Do his soft baby fingers unfold? 

What word does he bring from afar, 
This stranger so young, yet so old? 

Does he bring us some message from spheres 
Unheard of, from worlds we know not — 

Starry countries we dwell in, mayhap, 
As babies, and now have forgot ? 

Wlio can tell what he knows what he thinks ? 

He says not a word, but he looks, 
In a minute, more wisdom, Fll swear 

Than is shut* in the biggest of books. 

Unknown. 



GRANDMOTHER'S BABY. 



GRANDMOTHER'S BABY. 

Thirty years ago, my baby, 

A baby just like you, 
With golden fluff in silken rings, 

And shining eyes of blue, 
Came like a little angel, 

To fill my life with love, 
His dimpled hand was stronger then 

Than all the hosts above. 

But ere I knew it, baby, 

So fast the swift years ran, 
My darling was a romping lad, 

Aud then a bearded man. 
My darling went a-wooing, 

In honest joy and pride ; 
And as his father did before, 

He brought him home a bride. 

And I, a foolish mother, 

Felt somehow left alone ; 
And the boy who was my first-born son T 

Seemed not so much my own. 
"We mothers are so jealous, 

So selfish, I'm afraid ; 
With so much earthly leaven. 

Our scales are often weighed. 



10 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Now here are you, my baby, 

Son of my son, so fair, 
The hope of all onr household, 

Of all our line the heir. 
Prince Royal ; little comfort ; 

There ne'er was babe so sweet ; 
From golden head and violet eyes, 

To darling dainty feet. 

Thirty years ago, my baby, 

I tell it in your ear, 
Another nursling, just like you, 

Came from the angels here. 
I lost him in the whirlpool 

Of the rough world long ago ; 
And now the angels bring him back — 

That's why I love you so ! 

Margaret E. Sangster. 



A MORTIFYING MISTAKE. 

I studied my tables over and over, and backward 

and forward, too, 
But I couldn't remember six times nine, and I 

didn't know what to do, 



A MORTIFYING MISTAKE. 11 

Till sister told me to play with my doll, and not 

to bother my head. 
"If you call her 'Fifty-four' for a while, you 11 

learn it by heart," she said. 

So I took my favorite, Mary Ann (though I 
thought 'twas a dreadful shame 

To give such a perfectly lovely child such a per- 
fectly horrid name), 

And I called her my dear little "Fifty-four" a 
hundred times, I knew 

The answer of six times nine as well as the an- 
swer of two times two. 

Next day Elizabeth Wigglesworth, who always 

acts so proud, 
Said, "Six times nine is fifty-two," and I nearly 

laughed aloud ! 
But I wished I hadn't when teacher said, " Now, 

Dorothy, tell if you can ; " 
For I thought of my doll, and — sakes alive ! — I 

answered, " Mary Ann ! " 

Unknown. 



12 FAVORITE POEMS. 



GROWN-UP LAND. 

G-ood-niorrow, fair maid, with lashes brown, 
Can yon tell me the way to Womanhood Town ? 

Oh, this way and that way — never stop ; 
'Tis picking np stitches grandina will drop, 
'Tis kissing the baby's troubles away, 
'Tis learning that cross words never will pay, 
'Tis helping mother, 'tis sewing np rents, 
'Tis reading and playing, 'tis saving the pence, 
'Tis loving and smiling, forgetting to frown ; 
Oh, that is the way to Womanhood Town. 

Just wait, my brave lad — one moment I pray ; 
Manhood Town lies where — can yon tell me the 
way? 

Oh, by toiling and trying we reach the land — 
A bit with the head, a bit with the hand — 
'Tis by climbing np the steep hill Work, 
'Tis by keeping out the wide street Shirk, 
'Tis by always taking the weak one's part. 
'Tis by giving mother a happy heart, 
'Tis by keeping bad thoughts and actions down ; 
Oh, that is the way to Manhood Town. 



PLYMOUTH ROCK. 13 

And the lad and the maid ran hand-in-hand 
To their fair estate in the grown-up land. 

Unknown. 



PLYMOUTH ROCK. 

On the wild shore where loon and wild duck 

screamed, 
Where red men chased the deer, and clear and 

cold 
The lapping wave flowed and withdrew, from old 
There stood a rock sea-beaten, scarred and 

seamed. 

Over its glories of the sunrise streamed, 
As Nature thus the lesson would unfold 
How touch of great event turns clay to gold ; 
And over it with promise God's star gleamed. 

From the creation its appointed place 

The great rock kept, sphinx-like among its sands, 

To be the stepping-stone of that brave race 

Upon whose foreheads, Freedom's awful hands 

Had laid a benediction, and the grace 

To bear its covenant to unknown lands. 

Arlo Bates. 



14 FAVORITE POEMS. 



MY NEIGHBORS BOY. 

He seems to be several boys in one, 

So much is he constantly everywhere ! 

And the mischievous things that boy has done 

No mind can remember nor mouth declare. 

He fills the whole of his share of space 

With his strong, straight form and his merry face. 

He is very cowardly, very brave. 

He is kind and cruel, is good and bad, 

A brute and a hero ! Who will save 

The best from the worst of my neighbor's lad ? 

The mean and the noble strive to-day, 

Which of the powers will have its way? 

The world is needing his strength and skill, 

He will make hearts happy, or make them ache ; 

What power is in him for good or ill ! 

Which of life's paths will his swift feet take ? 

Will he rise, and draw others up to him, 

Or the light that is in him burn low and dim? 

But what is my neighbor's boy to me 

More than a nuisance ? My neighbor's boy, 

Though I have some fears for what he may be, 

Is a source of solicitude, hope, and joy, 

And a constant pleasure, because I pray 

That the best that is in him may rule some day. 



TEE RAINBOW. 15 

He passes me with a smile and a nod, 
He knows I have hope of him, guesses, too, 
That I whisper his name when I ask of God 
That men may be righteous, his will to do, 
And I think that many would have more joy 
If they loved and prayed for a neighbor's boy ! 
Marianne Farxingham. 



THE RAINBOW. 

A fragment of a rainbow bright 
Through the moist air I see, 

All dark and damp on yonder height, 
All bright and clear to me. 

An hour ago the storm was here, 

The gleam was far behind, 
So will our joys and grief appear, 

When earth has ceased to blind. 

Grief will be joy if on its edge 

Fall soft that holiest ray, 
Joy will be grief if no faint pledge 

Be there of heavenly day. 

J. Keble. 



16 FAVORITE POEMS. 



IMPROMPTU VERSE BY PHILLIPS BROOKS 

Oh, this beautiful island of Ceylon 
"With the cocoanut-trees on the shore, 

It is shaped like a pear with the peel on, 
And Kandy lies in at the core. 

And Kandy is sweet (you ask Gertie !) 
Even when it is spelt with a K, 

And the people are cheerful and dirty, 
And dress in a comical way. 

Here conies a particular dandy, 

With two ear-rings and half of a shirt, 

He's considered the swell of all Kandy, 
And the rest of him's covered with dirt. 

And here conies the belle of the city, 
With rings on her delicate toes, 

And eyes that are painted and pretty, 
And a jewel that shakes in her nose. 

And the dear little girls and their brothers, 
And the babies so jolly and fat, 

Astride on the hips of their mothers, 
And as black as a gentleman's hat. 

And the queer little heaps of old women, 
And the shaven Buddhistical priests, 



GRANDPAPA'S POCKETS. 17 

And the lake which the worshipers swim in, 
And the wagons with cnrious beasts. 

The tongne they talk mostly is Taniul, 
Which sounds yon can hardly tell how ; 

It is half like the scream of a camel, 
And half like the grunt of a sow. 



GKANDPAPA'S POCKETS. 

O such wonderful, wonderful pockets 
As grandpapa's never were known ; 
They're as lean as can be in the morning, 
But at nightfall so plump they have grown 
That they're ready to burst, for packed in them 
Is many a game and a toy, 
With candies and cakes for the girlies 
And lots of the same for the boy. 
And oranges, apples, and cherries, 
Bananas and peaches and berries, 
Balls, marbles, and beautiful dollies, 
Mimic kittens and monkeys and pollies — 
Yes, and even torpedoes and rockets 
Have been found in these wonderful pockets, 
Grandpapa's pockets. 



18 FAVORITE POEMS. 

O such wonderf ul, wonderful pockets ! 
Like stockings at Christmas are they ; 
But there's only one night for the stockings, 
And these — why they're filled every day ! 
And O how the rosy cheeks dimple 
With smiles that are loving and bright, 
As the dear old man's spied in the distance, 
And welcomed with shrieks of delight. 
For sets of the prettiest dishes 
On which to serve dinner delicious, 
And cunning wee sofas and tables, 
And books filled with jingles and fables, 
And finger rings, bracelets and lockets 
Have been found in these wonderful pockets, 
Grandpapa's pockets. 

Margaret Etynge. 



TO THE LADY-BIRD. 

Lady-bird ! lady-bird ! fly away home, — 
The field-mouse has gone to her nest, 

The daisies have shut up their sleepy red eyes, 
And the bees and the birds are at rest. 



TO THE LADY-BIRD, 19 

Lady-bird ! lady-bird ! fly away home, — 
The glow-worm is lighting her lamp, 

The dew's falling fast, and your fine speckled 
wings 
Will flag with the close-clinging damp. 

Lady-bird ! lady-bird ! fly away home, — 

Good luck if you reach it at last ! 
The owl's come abroad, and the bat's on the roam, 

Sharp set from their Ramazan fast. 

Lady-bird ! lady-bird ! fly away home, — 

The fairy bells tinkle afar ! 
Make haste, or they'll catch you, and harness 
you fast 

With a cobweb to Oberon's car. 

Lady-bird ! lady-bird ! fly away home, — 
To your house in the old willow-tree, 

Where your children, so dear, have invited the 
ant 
And a few cosy neighbors to tea. 

Lady-bird ! lady-bird ! fly away home, — 

And if not gobbled up by the way, 
Nor yoked by the fairies to Oberon's car, 

You're in luck — and that's all I have to say. 

Mrs. Southey. 



20 FAVORITE POEMS. 



THE COMING MAN. 

A pair of very chubby legs, 

Enclosed in scarlet hose ; 
A pair of little chubby boots, 

With rather doubtful toes ; 
A little kilt, a little coat, 

Cut as a mother can — 
And lo ! before us stands in state, 

The future's coming man. 

His eyes, perchance, will read the stars, 

And reach their unknown ways ; 
Perchance the human heart and soul 

Will open to their gaze ; 
Perchance their keen and flashing glance 

Will many a nation scan — 
Those eyes that now are wistful bent — 

Oh, hail the coming man ! 

Ah, blessings on those little hands, 

Whose work is yet undone ! 
And blessings on those little feet, 

Whose race is yet unrun ! 
And blessings on the little brain, 

Which has not learned to plan ! 
Whatever the future holds in store, 

God bless the coming man. 

Unknown. 



WHAT THE BABY SAID. 21 



'what THE BABY SAID. 



I'm very young, and yet I know 

A thing or two I do not show, 

I have not learned your language yet — 

It is so very hard to get — 

But if I could but make you see 

As I do, 'twould be well for me. 

Fm sure my hearing is quite good, 
And I'd be thankful if you would 
Not think that you must always shout, 
Or scream, or change your voice about 
To some strange squeal, painful to hear, 
For really IVe a tender ear. 

I would be satisfied to lie 
In my soft crib, but if I cry 
Because I have a trifling pain 
It does not make me well again 
To snatch me up, toss me about, 
Until I'm really tired out. 

I know quite well the better way 
To keep a baby still all day 
Is not to carry him around — 
That is a habit, as I've found, 



22 FAVORITE POEMS. 

That makes him restless, and he cries 
And frets the more, to your surprise. 

I think you're stupid not to see 
"What a bad plan it is for me 
Never to have a chance to find 
Some occupation to my mind. 
But if you choose to spend the day 
In tending me in sleep or play 
Don't blame me if I learn to cry, 
And fretful seem when you're not by. 

Another point I'd like to touch, 

'Tis something I dislike so much, — 

I think it is quite out of place 

To kiss a baby on its face. 

If silly women still insist 

That babies always must be kissed, 

Let them just touch my pretty cheek — 

My lips I beg them not to seek. 

Perhaps 'twould be as well to close 

With these few hints ; and she who knows 

Enough to fix them on her mind, 

Teach them to others of her kind. 

And show towards babes some little sense, 

A happy era will commence. 

A. H. S. 



JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. 23 



AN IMPROMPTU. 

O day so fair ! 

O day so rare ! 
Vouchsafed from heaven above. 

To soft blue skies 

We lift glad eyes, 
While hearts o'erflow with love. 

For each sweet day 

That comes our way, 
For each sweet night of peace. 

We yield a prayer 

Of thanks for care 
And love which does not cease. 

And may that prayer on faith's sweet wings 
Reach the dear Giver of all good things. 

Mary D. Brine. 



JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 
When we were first acquaint, 

Your locks were like the raven, 
Your bonny brow was brent ; 



24 FAVORITE POEMS. 

But now your brow is beld, John, 
Your locks are like the snaw ; 

But blessings on your frosty pow, 
John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither ; 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither ; 
Now we maun totter doun, John ; 

But hand in hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson, my jo. 

Robert Burns, 



ROOM AT THE TOP. 

Never you mind the crowd, lad, 
Or fancy your life won't tell ; 

The work is the work for a' that 
To him that doeth it well. 

Fancy the world a hill, lad, 
Look where the millions stop, 

You'll find the crowd at the base, lad ; 
There's always room at the top. 



THE WILD ROSE. 25 

Courage and faith and patience, 

There's space in the old world yet ; 
The better the chance yon stand, lad, 

The further along yon get. 
Keep your eyes on the goal, lad, 

Never despair or drop, 
Be sure that your path leads upward ; 

There's always room at the top. 

Unidentified. 



THE WILD ROSE. 

A boy espied, in morning light, 
A little rosebud blowing ; 

'Twas so delicate and bright, 

That he came to feast his sight, 
And wonder at its growing. 

Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, 
Rosebud brightly blowing ! 

" I will gather thee " — he cried — 
" Rosebud brightly glowing ! " 

" Then I'll sting thee," it replied, 

" And you'll quickly start aside 
With the prickle glowing." 

Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, 
Rosebud brightly blowing ! 



26 FAVORITE POEMS, 

But he plucked it from the plain, 
The rosebud brightly blowing ! 

It turned and stung him, but in vain — 

He regarded not the pain, 
Homeward with it going. 

Eosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, 
Kosebud brightly blowing. 

Goethe. 



ENTERTAINING SISTER'S BEAU. 

You are my sister's new beau, are you, 
The one she caught at the ball? 

I heard her telling my mamma so, 
Just as I came through the hall. 

She says you are awfully stupid, 
And you cannot dance at all ; 

It's just because you're rich, I guess, 
Made you the catch at the ball. 

And she says that when you are married 
She'll teach you a thing or two ; 

I don't think I'd be taught by a girl 
If I were a man like you. 



ENTERTAINING SISTER'S BEAU. 27 

Sister says that she loves your money, 

And Jack's is a hopeless case ; 
And ma says your love can be seen 

Plain as the nose on your face. 

And I heard her telling my papa, 

That she thought you'd be easily won, 

And, because of your wealth and position, 
Would make an acceptable son. 

Who is Jack? He is sister's old beau, 

Or was before she caught you ; 
He's smarter than you are, I know, 

And just as good looking, too. 

Sister loved him a little I'm sure, 

But Jack is awfully poor, 
So she wrote him a note this morning, 

Not to come back any more. 

What ! Not going already, are you? 

Jack never hurried off so ; 
Sister will be down in a minute, 

And be real angry, I know. 

Unknown. 



28 FAVORITE POEMS. 



EOSY-CHEEK AND CURLY-HEAD. 

When I go home this welcome waits 
Each evening when the day is fled ; 
The pattering of little feet, 
Then clinging arms and kisses sweet, 
From Rosy-cheek and Curly -head. 

They come with shouts of rioting ; 
They're laughing so they scarce can speak ! 
O pair of highwaymen are they ; 
And I an easy-yielding prey 
To Curly-head and Rosy-cheek. 

But curly heads will sometimes ache, 
And fill our souls with sudden dread ; 
And roses fade while hearts stand still. 
O, may there come no touch of ill 
To Rosy-cheek and Curly-head ! 

God bless all little cheeks of rose ! 
Where'er they bloom, they sunlight shed. 
Bless little heads of rippling hair ! 
O, take into Thy tender care 
Each Rosy-cheek and Curly-head ! 

Edgar Wade Abbot. 



The Rnnawav. 



' i «S3F. 




O (3><=>i-<^. 



\ 






THE RUNAWAY. 29 



THE RUNAWAY. 



I. 

Dorothy Deems, in her dove-colored hat, 

On a sweet sunshiny day, 
Taking her grandmamma's coal-colored cat 
Started to run away ; 

Dorothy Deems 
Had been — so it seems — 
Abused and misused in a terrible way ! 



II. 

A tall turkey-gobbler, with confident pace, 

Flapping his wings in the air, 
Fell in with Dorothy Deems face to face — 
But . . . Dorothy wasn't there ! 
Dorothy Deems, 
To judge by her screams, 
Regretted exceedingly this whole affair. 



III. 

Dorothy fled with the coal-colored cat, 
In an undignified way : 



30 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Trotted off, trailing the dove-colored hat : 
Reached home in tears. But they say 
Dorothy Deems, 
In her wildest dreams, 
Will never again think of running away. 

Unknown. 



BACK AGAIN TO SCHOOL. 

Back again to school, dears, 

Vacation days are done, 
You've had your share of frolic, 

And lots of play and fun. 
You've fished in many a brook, dears, 

And climbed up many a hill ; 
Now back again to school, dears, 

To study with a will. 

We all can work the better 

For having holiday, 
For playing ball and tennis, 

And riding on the hay. 
The great old book of Nature 

Prepares us plain to see 
How very well worth learning 

All other books may be. 



GOLDSMITH'S ELEGY. 31 

So back again to school, dears, 

Vacation-time is done ; 
You've had a merry recess, 

With lots and lots of fun. 
You've been like colts in pasture, 

Unused to bit and rein, 
Now steady, ready, children, 

It's time to march and train. 

' Tis only dunces loiter 

When sounds the school-bell's call, 
So fall in ranks, my boys and girls, 

And troop in, one and all. 
For school is very pleasant, 

When, after lots of fun, 
Vacation days are over, 

And real work is begun. 

Margaret E. Sangster. 



ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 

Good people all, of every sort, 

Give ear unto my song ; 
And if you find it wondrous short, 

It cannot hold you long. 



32 FAVORITE POEMS. 

In Islington there was a Man, 
Of whom the world might say, 

That still a godly race he ran, 
Whene'er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 
To comfort friends and foes, 

The naked every day he clad, 
When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a Dog was fonnd, 

As many dogs there "be, 
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound. 

And curs of low degree. 

This Dog and Man at first were friends ; 

But when a pique began, 
The Dog, to gain some private ends, 

Went mad and bit the Man. 

Around from all the neighboring streets 
The wond'ring neighbors ran, 

And swore the Dog had lost his wits, 
To bite so good a Man. 

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad 

To every Christian eye ; 
And while they swore the Dog was mad, 

They swore the Man would die. 






LITTLE BRIDGET'S COUNTRY WEEK. 33 

But soon a wonder came to light, 
That show'd the rogues they lied : 

The Man reeover'd of the bite, 
The Dog it was that died. 

O. Goldsmith. 



LITTLE BRIDGET'S COUNTRY WEEK. 

Through the bleak December day 
Little pale-faced Bridget lay 
On her shabby trundle-bed, 
Covered with a threadbare spread. 

Little Bridget lay alone, 
Trying not to cry or moan 
For her mother, who must stay 
Out at work the livelong day. 

Poor the room was, poor and plain ; 
But the narrow window-pane 
Let her out into free air, 
Into landscapes wide and fair. 

Out beyond the dreary street 
Sped her fancy's flying feet, 
Over hillside, meadow, dell. 
Ah ! she knew it all so well. 



34 FAYOBITE POEMS. 

Once, when summer days were long, 
Once, when she was brisk and strong, 
Kind hands bore her far away 
Into the green fields to play. 

Oh, the happy Country "Week, 
When the children went to seek 
Flowers and sunshine on the hills, 
Far away from city ills ! 

Little Bridget lived it over ; 
Smelt again the sweet red clover ; 
Watched the frisky squirrels play, 
Fed the birds and tossed the hay. 

All the beautiful wild flowers 
Came to cheer the lonesome hours ; 
Smiling, one by one, they came — 
Blossoms she had learned to name : 

Hardback, with its pale, pink spire ; 
Cardinals, flashing crimson fire ; 
Golden daisies, through the bars 
Shining up at her like stars. 

Once more, on the river's breast 

Large white lilies swayed in rest ; 
Waved for her the meadow-sweet ; 
Pussy-clover brushed her feet. 



LITTLE BRIDGETS COUNTRY WEEK. 35 

Once again her footsteps turn 
Toward the woodlands, fresh with fern ; 
Up the hill and down the lane ; 
1 Twas the Country Week again. 

Little Bridget's eyes were bright 
When her mother came that night. 
" Thoughts have wings," she said, "and 
With them through the window fly. 

"I forget the cold," she said, 
" I forget my aching head, 
While I wander long, long hours 
As I used to, gathering flowers." 

Brighter little Bridget's eyes 
Shone with wonder and surprise, 
Gazing on her window-pane 
When the morning dawned again. 

Who had been there in the night, 
Tracing, all in outlines white, 
Blossoms, ferns and feathery grass 
On her little square of glass ? 

Nodding harebells, daisy-stars, 
Pine-clad cliffs, and even the bars 
That she used to clamber through 
Into fields where lilies grew. 



36 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Down the chill gray dawning fell 
Echoes of a Christmas bell ! 
Little Bridget scarce could speak, 
But a flush suffused her cheek, 

And her heart with joy grew faint. 
" Mother, did the angels paint 
Flowers and ferns I used to see 
For a Christmas gift for me ? 

More than common flowers they seem; 
Mine in many a happy dream 
They have been before ; they grow 
In the fields of Heaven, I know. 

In my dreams they bloom so fair, 
And the little children there 
With me lovely blossoms seek — 
Heaven is like the Country Week." 

Lucy Larcom. 



THE MINSTREL-BOY. 

The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone, 
In the ranks of death you'll find him ; 

His father's sword he has girded on, 
And his wild harp slung behind him,- 



THE FLdwER. 37 



1 Land of song ! ' said the warrior bard, 
1 Though all the world betrays thee, 

One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, 
One faithful harp shall praise thee ! ' 

The Minstrel fell ! — but the foeman's chain 

Could not bring his proud soul under ; 
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again. 

For he tore its chords asunder ; 
And said, ' No chain shall sully thee, 

Thou soul of love and bravery ! 
Thy songs were made for the brave and free, 

They shall never sound in slavery ! ' 

Moore. 



THE FLOWER. 

Once in a golden hour 
I cast to earth a seed. 

Up there came a flower, 
The people said, a weed. 

To and fro they went 
Thro' my garden-bower, 

And muttering discontent 
Cursed me and my flower. 



38 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Then it grew so tall 

It wore a crown of light, 

But thieves from o'er the wall, 
Stole the seed by night. 

Sow'd it far and wide 

By every town and tower, 

Till all the people cried, 
" Splendid is the flower. " 

Eead my little fable : 
He that runs may read. 

Most can raise the flowers now, 
For all have got the seed. 

And some are pretty enough, 

And some are poor indeed ; 

And now again the people 

Call it but a weed. 

Tennyson. 






A WOED TO THE WISE. 

"Never cross a bridge till you come to it," 
My grandmother used to say, 



A WORD TO THE WISE. 39 

"Which means, little folks, that you mustn't fret 
Over troubles that may the future beset 
If we've done what we can to-day. 

You remember the time-worn fable 

Of the farmer's eight-day clock. 
How the pendulum counted, with trembling and 

fear, 
The number of times it must tick in a year 

And then stood as still as a stock, 

Till, aided by friendly counsel, 

It decided it would not shirk 
The duty that plainly before it lay, 
Because at some very distant day 

It might be too tired to work. 

So, little folks, live in the present ; 

Daily strive to be useful and glad, 
For when you are old you will find this out, 
That many a trouble you've worried about 

Is .one you have never had. 

Unknown. 






40 FAVORITE POEMS. 



THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES. 

That way look, my Infant, lo ! 

What a pretty baby show ! 

See the Kitten on the wall, 

Sporting with the leaves that fall, 

Withered leaves — one — two — and three — 

From the lofty elder-tree ! 

Throngh the calm and frosty air 

Of this morning bright and fair, 

Eddying ronnd and round they sink 

Softly, slowly : one might think, 

From the motions that are made, 

Every little leaf conveyed 

Sylph or Faery hither tending, — 

To this lower world descending, 

Each invisible and mute, 

In his wavering parachute. 

— But the Kitten, how she starts, 

Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts ! 

First at. one, and then its fellow, 

Just as light and just as yellow ; 

There are many now — now one — 

Now they stop, and there are none : 

What intenseness of desire 

In her upward eye of fire ! 






THE WIND AND THE MOON 41 

With a tiger-leap half way 

Now she meets the coming prey, 

Lets it go as fast, and then 

Has it in her power again : 

Now she works with three or four, 

Like an Indian conjurer ; 

Quick as he in feats of art, 

Far beyond in joy of heart. 

Were her antics played in th' eye 

'Of a thousand standers-by, 

Clapping hands with shout and stare, 

What would little Tabby care 

For the plaudits of the crowd? 

Over happy to be proud, 

Over wealthy in the treasure 

Of her own exceeding pleasure ! 

Wordsworth. 



THE WIND AND THE MOON. 

Said the Wind to the Moon, " I will blow you out. 

You stare 

In the air 

Like a ghost in a chair, 
Always looking what I am about. 
I hate to be watched ; I will blow you out." 



42 FAVORITE POEMS. 

The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. 

So, deep 

On a heap 

Of cloudless sleep, 
Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon — 
Muttering low — "I've done for that Moon." 

He turned in his bed ; she was there again ! 

On high 

In the sky 

With her ghost eye, 
The Moon shone white and alive and plain ; 
Said the Wind — "I will blow you out again." 

The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim. 

"With my sledge 

And my wedge 

I have knocked off the edge. 
If only I blow right fierce and grim 
The creature will soon be dimmer than dim." 



He blew, and he blew, and she thinned to a 
thread. 

"One puff 

More's enough 

To blow her to snuff ! 
One good puff more where the last was bred, 
And glimmer, glum will go the thread." 



THE WIND AND THE MOON. 43 

He blew a great blast and the thread was gone ; 

In the air 

Nowhere 

Was a moonbeam bare ; 
Far off and harmless the sky-stars shone ; 
Sure and certain the Moon was gone ! 

The Wind took to his revels once more 

On down 

In town 

Like a merry-mad clown, 
He leaped and halloed with whistle and roar. 
"What's that?" The glimmering thread once 
more. 

He flew in a rage — he danced and blew ; 

But in vain 

Was the pain 

Of his bursting brain ; 
For still broader the moon-scrap grew, 
The broader he swelled his big cheeks, and blew. 

Slowly she grew — till she filled the night 

And shone 

On her throne 

In the sky alone, 
A matchless, wonderful, silvery light, 
Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night. 



44 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Said the Wind : "What a marvel of power am I ! 

With, my breath 

Good faith 

I blew her to death — 
First blew her away right out of the sky — 
Then blew her in ; what strength am I ! " 

But the Moon knew nothing about the affair. 

For high 

In the sky 

With her one white eye, 
Motionless miles above the air, 
She had never heard the great Wind blare. 

George MacDoxale 



THE LAND OF NOD. 

From breakfast on through all the day 
At home among my friends I stay, 
But every night I go abroad 
Afar into the land of Nod. 

All by myself I have to go, 

With none to tell me what to do — 

All alone beside the streams 

And up the mountain-sides of dreams. 



JOHN GILPIX. 45 

The strangest things are there for me, 
Both things to eat and things to see, 
And many frightening sights abroad 
Till morning in the land of Nod. 

Try as I like to find the way, 
I never can get back by day, 
Nor can remember plain and clear 
The curious music that I hear. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 



JOHN GILPIN. 

John Gilpin was a citizen 

Of credit and renown, 
A train-band Captain eke was he 

Of famous London town. 

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, 
" Though wedded we have been 

These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
No holiday have seen. 

" To-morrow is our wedding day, 

And we will then repair 
Unto the Bell at Edmonton, 

All in a chaise and pair. 



46 FAVORITE POEMS. 

" My sister and my sister's child, 

Myself and children three, 
Will fill the chaise ; so you must ride 

On horseback after me." 

He soon replied, — "I do admire 

Of womankind bnt one, 
And yon are she, my dearest dear, 

Therefore it shall be done. 

" I am a linen draper bold, 

As all the world doth know, 
And my good Mend the Callender, 

Will lend his horse to go." 

Quoth Mistress Gilpin, — "That's well said; 

And for that wine is dear, 
We will be furnish'd with our own, 

Which is both bright and clear." 

John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife ; 

O'erjoy'd was he to find 
That though on pleasure she was bent, 

She had a frugal mind. 

The morning came, the chaise was brought, 

But yet was not allowed 
To drive up to the door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud. 



JOHN GILPIN, 47 

So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, 

Where they did all get in, 
Six precious souls, and all agog 

To dash through thick and thin. 

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels ; 

Were never folks so glad, 
The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside were mad. 

John Gilpin at his horse's side, 

Seized fast the flowing mane, 
And up he got in haste to ride, 

But soon came down again. 

For saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he, 

His journey to begin, 
When turning round his head he saw 

Three customers come in. 

So down he came, for loss of time 

Although it grieved him sore, 
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, 

Would trouble him much more. 

? Twas long before the customers 

Were suited to their mind, 
When Betty screaming came down stairs, 

"The wine is left behind." 



48 FAVORITE POEMS. 

"Grood lack ! " quoth he, "yet bring it mo, 

My leathern belt likewise 
In which I bear my trusty sword 

When I do exercise." 

Now Mistress Gilpin, careful soul, 

Had two stone bottles found, 
To hold the liquor that she loved, 

And keep it safe and sound. 

Each bottle had a curling ear, 
Through which the belt he drew, 

And hung a bottle on each side 
To make his balance true. 

Then over all, that he might be 

Equipped from top to toe, 
His long red cloak well-brushed and neat, 

He manfully did throw. 

Now see him mounted once again 

Upon his nimble steed, 
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, 

With caution and good heed. 

But finding soon a smoother road 

Beneath his well-shod feet, 
The snorting beast began to trot, 

Which gall'd him in his seat. 



JOHN GILPIN. 49 

"So, fair and softly ! " John he cried, 

But John he cried in vain ; 
That trot became a gallop soon, 

In spite of club and rein. 

So stooping down, as needs he must 

Who cannot sit upright, 
He grasp'd the mane with both his hands 

And eke with all his might. 

His horse, who never in that sort 

Had handled been before, 
What thing upon his back had got 

Did wonder more and more. 

Away went Gilpin neck or nought, 

Away went hat and wig ; 
He little dreamt, when he set out, 

Of running such a rig. 

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, 

Like streamer long and gay, 
Till, loop and button failing both, 

At last it flew away. 

Then might all people well discern 

The bottles he had slung ; 
A bottle swinging at each side 

As hath been said or sung. 



50 FAVORITE POEMS. 

The dogs did bark, the children scream' d, 

Up new the windows all, 
And every sonl cried out, "Well done ! " 

As loud as he could bawl. 

Away went Gilpin — who but he ? 

His fame soon spread around, 
He carried weight, he rides a race, 

'Tis for a thousand pound. 

And still as fast as he drew near, 

; Twas wonderful to view 
How in a trice the turnpike-men 

Their gates wide open threw. 

And now as he went bowing down 

His reeking head full low, 
The bottles twain behind his back 

Were shattered at a blow. 

Down ran the wine into the road 

Most piteous to be seen, 
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke 

As they had basted been. 

But still he seem'd to carry weight, 

With leathern girdle braced 
For all might see the bottle-necks 

Still dangling at his waist. 



JOHN GILPIN. 51 

Thus all through merry Islington 

These gambols he did play, 
And till he came unto the Wash 

Of Edmonton so gay. 

And there he threw the Wash about 

On both sides of the way, 
Just like unto a trundling mop, 

Or a wild-goose at play. 

At Edmonton his loving wife 

From the balcony spied 
Her tender husband, wondering much 

To see how he did ride. 

"Stop, stop, John Gilpin ! — Here's the house — ' 

They all at once did cry, 
" The dinner waits, and we are tired ; n 

Said Gilpin—" So am I ! » 

But yet hio horse was not a whit 

Inclined to tarry there, 
For why ? his owner had a house 

Full ten miles off, at Ware. 

So like an arrow swift he flew 

Shot by an archer strong, 
So did he fly — which brings me to 

The middle of my song. 



52 FAVOBITE POEMS. 

Away went Gilpin, out of breath, 

And sore against his will, 
Till at his friend the Callender's 

His horse at last stood still. 

The Callender, amazed to see 

His neighbor in snch trim, 
Laid down his pipe, new to the gate 

And thus accosted him — 

"What news? what news? your tidings tell, 

Tell me you must and shall — 
Say, why bareheaded you are come, 

Or why you come at all?" 

Now Gi-ilpin had a pleasant wit, 

And loved a timely joke, 
And thus unto the Callender 

In merry guise he spoke — 

" I came because your horse would come ; 

And if I well f orbode, 
My hat and wig will soon be here, 

They are upon the road." 

The Callender, right glad to find 

His friend in merry pin, 
Eeturn'd him not a single word, 

But to the house went in. 



JOHN GILPIN. 53 

Whence straight he came with hat and wig, 

A wig that flowed behind, 
A hat not much the worse for wear, 

Each comely in its kind. 

He held them up, and in his turn 

Thus showed his ready wit, 
"My head is twice as big as yours, 

They therefore needs must fit. 

"But let me scrape the dirt away, 

That hangs upon your face ; 
And stop and eat, for well you may 

Be in a hungry case." 

Said John — " It is my wedding-day, 

And all the world would stare, 
If wife should dine at Edmonton 

And I should dine at Ware." 

So, turning to his horse, he said, 

"I am in haste to dine, 
? Twas for your pleasure you came here, 

You shall go back for mine." 

Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast ! 

For which he paid full dear, 
For while he spake a braying ass 

Did sing most loud and clear. 



54 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Whereat his horse did snort as he 

Had heard a lion roar, 
And gallop'd off with all his might, 

As he had done before. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went Gilpin's hat and wig ; 
He lost them sooner than at first, 

For why? they were too big. 

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 

Her husband posting down 
Into the country far away, 

She pull'd out half a crown ; 

And thus unto the youth, she said, 

That drove them to the Bell, 
" This shall be yours, when you bring back 

My husband safe and well." 

The youth did ride, and soon did meet 

John coming back amain, 
Whom in a trice he tried to stop 

By catching at his rein. 

But not performing what he meant, 

And gladly would have done, 
The frightened steed he frighten'd more 

And made him faster run. 



JOHN GILPIN. 55 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went post-boy at his heels, 
The post-boy's horse right glad to miss 

The lumbering of the wheels. 

Six gentlemen upon the road 

Thus seeing Gilpin fly, 
"With post-boy scampering in the rear, 

They raised the hue and cry. 

" Stop thief ! — stop thief ! — a highwayman ! " 

Not one of them was mute, 
And all and each that passed that way 

Did join in the pursuit. 

And now the turnpike gates again 

Flew open in short space, 
The toll-men thinking as before 

That Gilpin rode a race. 

And so he did, and won it too, 

For he got first to town, 
Nor stopp'd till where he had got up 

He did again get down. 

— Now let us sing. Long live the king, 

And Gilpin long live he, 
And when he next doth ride abroad, 

May I be there to see ! 

W. Cowper. 



56 FAVORITE POEMS. 



MY LOST BABY. 

Comes little Maud and stands by my knee, 
Her soft eyes filled with a troubled joy ; 

And her wondering heart is perplexed to see 
Her babyhood lost in onr baby boy. 

For Maud was a babe but a week ago, — 

A gentle, lovable, clinging thing ; 
Now we are saddened but pleased to know 

The queen is dethroned and there reigns a 
king,— • 

A tiny king, with a cheek like down ; 

With dark, indefinite-colored eyes ; 
With hair of the softest satiny brown ; 

Who doubles his fists and hiccoughs and cries ; 

Who groans, grimaces, and paws the air, 

And twists his mouth in a meaningless smile ; 

Who fixes his eyes in a winkless stare, 
And seems in the deepest thought the while. 

A wee small king with a comical face, 

Whom one moment we laugh at, the next 
caress ; 

A little monarch who holds his place 

By the wondrous might of his helplessness. 



MY LOST BABY. 57 

Come hither, my Maud, with your wistful eyes ; 

Come hither, I'll lay the small tyrant down ; 
I'll gather you up in a glad surprise, 

And press to my bosom your head of brown. 

Nestle down close to your mother's breast, 
Poor little babe of a week gone by ; 

Find for a moment a haven of rest — 
Clasping my neck with a satisfied sigh. 

Alas ! I have lost her, she is no more 
The baby girl that I loved to press 

Close to my heart ; she's a woman before 
This animate object of helplessness. 

My heart is sad for my girl to-day ; 

In a moment babyhood's privileged years 
Have passed from her life forever away, — 

We see them vanish through misty tears. 

Farewell, sweet babe of a week agone ! 

Thou hast reached the land of the nevermore, 
And Maud's little feet are standing on 

The perilous heights of childhood's shore. 

Unknown. 



58 FAVORITE POEMS. 



A TEERTBLE INFANT. 

I recollect a nurse called Ann, 
Who carried me about the grass, 
And one fine day a fine young man 
Came up and kiss'd the pretty lass : 
She did not make the least objection ! 

Thinks I, "Aha! 
When I can talk Til tell Mama," 
— And that's my earliest recollection. 

F. Locker. 



THE MILKMAID. 

Across the grass I see her pass ; 

She comes with tripping pace, — 
A maid I know, — and March winds blow 

Her hair across her face ; — 
With a hey, Dolly ! ho, Dolly ! 

Dolly shall be mine, 
Before the spray is white with May, 

Or blooms the eglantine. 



THE MILKMAID. 59 

The March winds blow, I watch her go ; 

Her eye is brown and clear ; 
Her cheek is brown, and soft as down, 

(To those who see it near !) 
With a hey, Dolly ! ho, Dolly ! 

Dolly shall be mine, 
Before the spray is white with May, 

Or blooms the eglantine. 



What has she not that those have got, — 

The dames that walk in silk ! 
If she undo her 'kerchief blue, 

Her neck is white as milk. 
With a hey, Dolly ! ho, Dolly ! 

Dolly shall be mine, 
Before the spray is white with May, 

Or blooms the eglantine. 



Let those who will be proud and chill ! 

For me from June to June, 
My Dolly's words are sweet as curds — 

Her laugh is like a tune ; — 
With a hey, Dolly ! ho, Dolly ! 

Dolly shall be mine, 
Before the spray is white with May, 

Or blooms the eglantine. 



60 FAVOBITE POEMS. 

Break, break, to hear, O Crocus spear ! 

O tall Lent-lilies flame ! 
There'll be a bride at easter-tide, 

And Dolly is her name. 
With a hey, Dolly ! ho, Dolly ! 

Dolly shall be mine, 
Before the spray is white with May, 

Or blooms the eglantine. 

Austin Dobsox. 



THE STOEY OF EDDY, WHO NEVER 
WAS READY. 

Once on a time lived a dear little boy, 

Moreover, a very queer little boy, 

Who always was calling, " Please wait ! " 

He was never ready for morning prayers, 

He was late to rise and the last upstairs, 

At breakfast, dinner, and lunch, his head 

Popped into the room when the grace was said. 

He was always a little too late ; 

And all the time it was, " Hurry up, Eddy, 

You're sure to be late : you never are ready." 



THE STORY OF EDDY. 61 

He went in undignified haste, pell mell, 

Into the school at the tardy bell, 

Forgetting his books and his slate : 

He walked to the church and the Sunday-school, 

Because to ride it was always the rule 

To be on time. It was mother's dread 

He'd not get in till the lesson was read, 

Because he was always too late : 

And every Sabbath ' twas, " Hurry up, Eddy, 

You're sure to be late : you never are ready." 

Vacation time came, they were going abroad, 

Harry and Susie and Nellie and Maud : 

They went through the steamers gate, 

The plank was drawn in, to the grief of the flock, 

"When Eddy rushed breathlessly out on the dock. 

His father said from the deck, "We roam, 

But you must spend your vacation at home, 

For this habit of being too late." 

And the waves seemed to mock him with, " Hurry 

up, Eddy, 
You're always late : you never are ready. " 

He grew to a man ; but habits are things 
That boys must battle, they do not take wings. 
He never was useful or great. 
They placed him at college ; in business you'll find 
He never succeeds who is always behind ; 



62 FAVORITE POEMS. 

The girl that he loved had patience sublime. 
But was won by the man who was always on time. 
She said, " You're a little too late, 
For Cupid don't wait for a laggard, Eddy." 
The world that achieves is prompt and steady, 
The world moves ahead if a man isn't ready. 
Emma Clayter Seabury. 



THE KINDS WANTED. 

Wanted, — a boy that is manly and just, 
One that you feel you may honor and trust ; 
Who cheerfully shoulders what life to him brings, 
In sunshine and pleasure, or troublesome things ; 
Whose eye meets your own with no shadow of 

fear, 
No wile on the face that is open and clear, 
Straightforward in purpose, and ready to push, — 
For, "a bird in the hand is worth two in the 

bush ; " 
Who scornfully turns from a something to gain, 
If it brings to another a sorrow or pain ; 
Who is willing to hold what is right ever dear, 
And is patient, unheeding the scoif or the jeer ; 
Who does all he can with a heart that's elate, — 
He is wanted, that boy, whatsoever his state. 



THE BABY. 63 

Wanted, — a girl — not a butterfly gay — 
Who is gentle and sweet in a womanly way ; 
No beautiful picture, so languid and fair, 
That always seems labelled, "Please handle 

with care ; " 
But one in whose heart there is hidden true worth, 
Who faithfully follows her mission on earth ; 
Hopeful and earnest in helping and giving, 
Finds plenty to do in the life she is living, 
Filling its duties with quiet content, 
Whether adverse or pleasant, just as they're sent s 
In the garb of a queen, or in homespun arrayed, 
Whatever her station — is needed that maid. 

Unknown. 



THE BABY. 

There bloomed in the garden of Paradise 
Two violet buds for the darling's eyes. 

A rosebud touched her lips one day 

And ripe, red kisses bloomed straightway. 

A cloud lamb brushed her cheeks one night 
And left them tender and soft and white. 



64 FAVORITE POEMS. 

The sea the sweet little secret hears 
And gives two tiny, pink shells for ears. 

The "breezes came in delicate whirls 
And twisted her hair into dainty curls. 

Then the fairies brought little hands and feet 
And the dainty, wee maiden was quite complete. 

The gate of Heaven was open one day 
And to earth the little one ran away. 

Unknown. 



MOLLIE'S PROBLEMS. 

There's lots of things I cannot understand, 
It really makes no matter how I try ; 

One's why the brown comes on my little hand 
Because the sun is hot up in the sky. 

I never understood why birds eat worms, 
Instead of pie and puddings full of plums. 

I cant see why a baby always squirms, 
Or why big boys are 'fraid of little sums. 



WHAT SHE LACKED. 65 

I cannot understand why doggies bark, 
Instead of talking sense like you and me ; 

And why the sun don't shine when it is dark, 
Instead of when it's light, I cannot see. 

I wonder what it is makes children grow, 
And why they have no wings like little flies ; 

But puzzlingest of all the things I know 
Is why grandma wears windows on her eyes. 

John K. Bangs. 



WHAT SHE LACKED. 

Miss Pussy sat on the lowest bough 

Of a waving hickory tree, 
Whispering softly, " I'll have you now, 

You gay little robin, you'll see ! 
The old hen watches her chicks thirteen, 

And has such a fearful way 
Of flying at one, that I haven't seen 

A bit of fresh meat to-day." 

But Master Eobin twitters away, 
As she stealthily creeps along, 

Joining in as the thrush and jay 
Chirrup a morning song. 



66 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Glancing sidewise once and again 

Ont of his saucy eye, 
As if to say : " You'll catch me then? 

Well, madam, suppose you try." 

"I have four legs," said Pussy-cat, 

" And you, sir, have only two ; 
I have sharp claws — depend upon that — 

And they'll get the "better of you ; 
I'm stronger, too, than a dozen birds — 

Look, now ! " and she quickly springs. 
But the robin laughed as he soared away : 

"Ha ! ha ! but you have no wings." 

Anonymous. 



THE MOON. 

The moon has a face like the clock in the hall ; 
She shines on thieves on the garden wall, 
On streets and fields and harbor quays, 
And birdies asleep in the forks of the trees. 

The squalling cat and the squeaking mouse 3 
The howling dog by the door of the house, 
The bat that lies in bed at noon, 
All long to be out by the light of the moon. 



THE BABY'S PRAYER. 67 

But all of the things that belong to the day 
Cuddle to sleep to be out of the way. 
And flowers and children close their eyes 
Till up in the morning the sun shall rise. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 



THE BABY'S PRAYER. 

I knelt beside my darling's crib, 

The old nurse slumbered in her chair ; 

The night lamp shed a feeble ray, 

Reproachful of the hearth-stone's glare. 

I watched as only mothers watch — - 
I prayed as only mothers pray, 

Who see the silent foe approach 
To tear their best belov'd away, 

And soon the child began to stir, 

The sweet blue eyes were opened wide, 

She murmured softly, " Please mamma, 
Lay dollie here — right by my side.*' 



68 FAVORITE POEMS. 

I found the doll just where it fell 

From out her arms, that first sad day 

My little one began to droop, 

And said she was "too tired to play." 

I brought it, and she held it close — 
" I missed my dollie such a heap ! 

I finks that now I have her here 

Fll say my 'Lay me down to sleep.'" 

A struggle with the fluttering breath, 
Then " S'ould I die before I wake," 

Fell slowly from the tiny lips, 

" I pray the Lord my soul to take." 

A pause, and then she spoke again, 
" Fse sick, and wants to come to you, 

Dear Jesus, 'cause you'll make me well ; 
Please take me — and take dollie too." 



The fire upon the hearth blazed up, 
And waked the old nurse in her chair ; 

She drew me gently from the crib, 
My baby was no longer there. 

Adelaide Preston, 



THE MAY QUEEN. 69 



THE MAY QUEEN. 

You must wake and call me early, call me early, 

mother dear ; 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the 

glad New-year ; 
Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest, 

merriest day ; 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

There's many a black, black eye, they say, but 

none so bright as mine ; 
There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and 

Caroline : 
But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they 

say, 
So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall 

never wake, 
If you do not call me loud when the day begins 

to break : 
But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and 

garlands gay, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Queen o' the May. 



70 FAVORITE POEMS. 

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I 

see, 
But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the 

hazel-tree ? 
He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him 

yesterday, — 
But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Queen o' the May. 



He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all 

in white, 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash 

of light. 
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what 

they say, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Queen o' the May. 



They say he's dying all for love, but that can 

never be : 
They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is 

that to me ? 
There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer 

day, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Queen o' the May. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 71 

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the 

green, 
And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made 

the Queen ; 
For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from 

far away, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Queen o' the May. 



The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its 

wavy bowers, 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint 

sweet cuckoo-flowers ; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in 

swamps and hollows gray, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Queen o' the May. 



The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the 

meadow-grass, 
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten 

as they pass ; 
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the 

livelong day, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Queen o' the May. 



72 FAVORITE POEMS, 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and 

still, 
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all 

the hill, 
And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily 

dance and play, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

So yon mnst wake and call me early, call me 

early, mother dear, 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the 

glad New-year : 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest, 

merriest day, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Qneen o' the May. 

Tennyson. 



LEGEND OF THE FOKGET-ME-NOT. 

When to the flowers so beautifnl 

The Father gave a name, 
Back came one little bine-eyed one, 

All tremblingly it came, 



BEAUTIFUL THINGS. 73 

And standing at the Father's feet 

And gazing in His face, 
It said, with meek and timid mien, 

Yet with a qniet grace, 
"Dear God, the name Thou gavest me, 

Alas ! I have forgot. " 
The Father kindly looked on her 

And said, " Forget-me-not." 

Unknown. 



BEAUTIFUL THINGS. 

Beautiful faces are those that wear — 
It matters little if dark or fair — 
Whole-sonled honesty printed there. 

Beautiful eyes are those that show, 

Like crystal panes where hearth-fires glow, 

Beautiful thoughts that burn below, 

Beautiful lips are those whose words 
Leap from the heart like songs of birds, 
Yet whose utterance prudence girds. 



74 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Beautiful hands are those that do 
Work that is earnest, brave, and true, 
Moment by moment the long day through. 

Beautiful feet are those that go 
On kindly errands to and fro — 
Down humblest ways if God wills it so. 

Beautiful shoulders are those that bear 
The needful burdens of homely care 
With patient grace and daily prayer. 

Beautiful lives are those that bless, 
Silent rivers of happiness 
Whose hidden fountains but few may guess. 

Unknown. 



TWO BIRTHS. 

I see a radiant starry night, 
A bright October morn. 
I hear a little infant's cries, 
And tears of joy are in my eyes, 
For my first-born. 



TWO BIRTHS. 75 

She was a darling little thing ; 

I worshipped her outright. 

When in my arms she smiling lay ; 

When on my knees she climbed in play ; 

When round my neck her arms would cling, 

As crooning songs I used to sing ; 

When on my back she gaily rode, 

Then strong beneath its precious load ; 

WTien at my side, in summer days, 

She gambolled in her childish plays ; 

When throughout all the after years, 

I watched, with trembling hopes and fears, 

The infant to a woman grow, 

I worshipped then as I do now, 

My life's delight. 

Then she was mine, and mine alone. 
Her heart had never heard a tone 
That thrilled like mine. 
And time rolled peacefully away, 
Till I had grown both old and gray, 
When came a gallant youth along 
With pleasant eye and voice and song. 
A glance he sent, a word he gave, 
And like the ocean's mighty wave, 
That ploughs the silent depths below, 
He made her heart in tumult glow, 
And stirred her soul, as ne'er did I, 
With all my love and sympathy. 



76 FAVORITE POEMS. 

That tidal wave o'erthrew my throne. 
The regnant sway, so long my own, 
I mnst resign. 

Again that starry night I see, 

'Through crowded years of memory ; 

Again I hear an infant's cries, 

And grateful tears suffuse my eyes. 

For on her breast, in speechless joy, 

She holds a little cherub boy. 

With smile divine she views him o'er, 

And worships as I did before. 

Visions of dear delights to come 

Around her gather. 

Now in her life my life appears 

With all its hopes and cares and fears. 

As on that bright October morn, 

I gaze upon her first-born, 

And in her child again live o'er 

The pleasures that her coming bore, — 

A grandfather. 

Charles J. Sprague. 



THE FAIREST. 77 



THE FAIREST. 

A little lass with golden hair, 

A little lass with brown, 

A little lass with raven locks, 

Went tripping off to town. 

"I like the golden hair the best," 

" And I prefer the brown," 

"And I the black," 

Three sparrows said, 

Three sparrows of the town. 

" Tu-whit ! Tu-whoo ! " an old owl cried 

From the belfry in the town : 

" Glad-hearted lassies need not mind 

If locks be gold, black, brown. 

Tu-whit ! Tu-whoo ! So fast, so fast, 

The sands of life run down, 

And soon, so soon, three white-haired dames 

Will totter through the town. 

Gone then for aye the raven locks, 

The golden hair, the brown ; 

And she will fairest be whose face 

Least times has worn a frown. 

Unknown. 



78 FAVORITE POEMS. 



WHAT I LIVE FOE, 

I live for those that love nie, 

For those that know me true, 

For the heaven that smiles above me, 

And waits my coming to. 

For the course that needs assistance, 

For the wrongs that need resistance, 

For the future in the distance, 

For the good that I can do. 

Unknown. 



WHEN THE DAY GROWS OLD. 

Tiny feet, when the day grows old, 
Clamber merrily round my chair ; 
Tiny hands round my fingers fold, 

Touch and play with my old white hair 
O stay with me, stay, 
Nor hasten away ; 
While ye are near, while ye are near, 
Life can never be lone or drear ! 



THE POPPY-LAXD LIMITED EXPRESS. 79 

Tiny feet, when I shall be gone, 

Ye will be weary and worn, I trow ; 
Little hands, as the years roll on, 
Ye will yearn for the day long ago. 
May Heaven above 
Send you such love, 
And bring hearts to nestle near ; 
And life shall never be lone or drear ! 

F. E. Weatherly. 



THE POPPY-LAXD LIMITED EXPRESS. 

The first train leaves at six p.m. 

For the land where the poppy blows : 
The mother dear is the engineer, 

And the passenger laughs and crows. 

The palace car is the mother's arms, 
The whistle, a low, sweet strain ; 

The passenger winks, and nods, and blinks, 
And goes to sleep in the train. 

At eight p.m. the next train starts, 

For the poppy-land afar : 
The summons clear falls on the ear, 

" All aboard for the sleeping-car ! " 



80 FAVORITE POEMS. 

But what is the fare to Poppy-Land? 

I hope it is not too dear ; 
The fare is this, a hng and a kiss, 

And it's paid to the engineer ! 

So I ask of Him who children took 

On His knee in kindness great, 
" Take charge, I pray, of the train each day, 

That leaves at six and eight. 

"Keep watch of the passengers," thus I pray, 

For to me they are very dear : 
"And special ward, O gracious Lord, 

O'er the gentle engineer." 

Edgar Wade Abbot. 



KINDNESS. 

Would you soon disdain a foe — 
Purge away his blindness? 

Do not give him blow for blow ; 
Melt his heart with kindness ! 

Searching out his want and will, 

Sympathy so touches, 
Gently as the drops distill 

Ere the spring outgushes ! 



THE PLAINT OF A PESSIMIST. 81 

Let him find you manly, kind, 

Bighting wrong, and ever 

Serving all with, heart and mind — 

God crowns best endeavor. 

Unknown. 



THE PLAINT OF A PESSIMIST. 

Nothing to do but work, 
Nothing to eat but food, 

Nothing to wear but clothes, 
To keep one from going nude. 

Nothing to breathe but air, 
Quick as a flash 'tis gone ; 

Nowhere to fall but off, 
Nowhere to stand but on. 

Nothing to comb but hair, 
Nowhere to sleep but in bed, 

Nothing to weep but tears, 
Nothing to bury but dead. 

Nothing to sing but songs, 

Oh ! well, alas, alack ! 
Nowhere to go but out, 

Nowhere to come but back. 



82 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Nothing to see but sights, 
Nothing to quench but thirst, 

Nothing to have, but what we've got ; 
Thus through life we're cursed. 

Nothing to strike but a gait ; 

Everything moves that goes ; 
Nothing at all but common sense 

Can ever withstand these woes. 

Unknown. 



THE "OLD, OLD SONG." 

When all the world is young, lad, 

And all the trees are green ; 
And every goose a swan, lad, 

And every lass a queen, — 
Then hey for boot and horse, lad, 

And round the world away ; 
Young blood must have its course, lad, 

And every dog his day. 

When all the world is old, lad, 
And all the trees are brown ; 

And all the sport is stale, lad, 
And all the wheels run down, — 



THE FIEST TOOTH. 83 

Creep home, and take your place there, 
The spent and maimed among : 

God grant you find one face there 
You loved when all was young. 

Charles Kingsley. 



THE FIRST TOOTH. 

Sister. 

Through the house what busy joy, 

Just because the infant boy 

Has a tiny tooth to show. 

I have got a double row, 

All as white, and all as small ; 

Yet no one cares for mine at all. 

He can say but half a word, 

Yet that single sound's preferred 

To all the words that I can say 

In the longest summer day. 

He cannot walk, yet if he put 

With mimic motion out his foot, 

As if he thought he were advancing, 

It's prized more than my best dancing. 



84 FAVOBITE POEMS, 



Brother 



Sister, I know, you jesting are, 
Yet O ! of jealousy beware. 
If the smallest seed should be 
In your mind of jealousy, 
It will spring, and it will shoot, 
Till it bear the baneful fruit. 
I remember you, my dear, 
Young as is this infant here. 
There was not a tooth of those 
Your pretty even ivory rows, 
But as anxiously was watched, 
Till it burst its shell new hatched, 
As if it a Phoenix were, 
Or some other wonder rare. 
So when you began to walk — 
So when you began to talk — 
As now, the same encomiums past. 
? Tis not fitting this should last 
Longer than our infant days ; * 
A child is fed with milk and praise. 

Charles Lamb, 









MY MOTHER SAYS." 85 



"MY MOTHER SAYS." 

I am her pride and highest joy, 
My mother says, her manly boy ; 
'Twill always be her noblest plan 
To make her son a gentleman. 

A gentleman is always neat, 

She says, his toilet all complete ; 

His boots are blacked, his hands are clean. 

His hair as smooth as satin sheen. 

Yet 'tis not always by the dress 
That you the gentleman may gness, 
For oft to poverty and scorn 
A future gentleman is born. 

A gentleman will be polite, 
He'll try to do what's true and right ; 
No manly duty will he shirk, 
He'll never be ashamed of work. 

He'll not be perfect, he will fall, 
He'll make mistakes, the same as all ; 
But still he'll urge his way along, 
And say he's sorry when he's wrong. 



86 FAVORITE POEMS. 

She says she'd like to read my name 
Upon the highest scroll of fame ; 
She'd like to see me march along 
The hero of a nation's song. 

But there's no honor she could name, 
No homage I might ever claim, 
Could ever be a higher joy, 
Or make her prouder of her boy, 
Than just to say, "In every plan 
My boy has been a gentleman." 

Mary R. Diefendorf. 






LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF. 

O, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight, 

Thy mother a lady both lovely and bright ; 

The woods and the glens from the tower which 

we see, 
They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee. 

O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows, 
It calls but the warders that guard thy repose ; 
Their bows would be bended, their blades would 

be red, 
Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed. 



THE OLD MAN IN THE WOOD. 87 

O, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come, 
When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and 

drum ; 
Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you 

may, 
For strife comes with manhood, and waking with 

day. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



THE OLD MAN IN THE WOOD. 

There was an old man who lived in a wood. 

As you shall plainly see ; 
He thought he could do more work in one day 

Than his wife could do in three. 

"With all my heart," the old dame said; 

"And if you will allow, 
You shall stay at home to-day, 

And I'll go follow the plow. 

" But you must milk the tiny cow, 

Lest she should go quite dry ; 
And you must feed the little pigs 

That are within the sty ; 



88 FAVORITE POEMS. 

" And you must watch the speckled hen, 

Lest she should go astray ; 
Not forgetting the spool of yarn 

That I spin every day." 

The old woman took the stick in her hand, 

And went to follow the plow ; 
The old man put the pail on his head, 

And went to milk the cow. 

But Tiny she winced, and Tiny she flinched, 
And Tiny she tossed her nose ; 

And Tiny gave him a kick on the shin, 
Till the blood ran down to his toes. 

And a " Ho, Tiny ! » and a " So, Tiny ! 

Pretty little cow, stand still ! 
If ever I milk you again," he said, 

"It shall be against my will." 

And then he went to feed the pigs 

That were within the sty ; 
He knocked his nose against the shed, 

And caused the blood to fly. 

And then he watched the speckled hen, 

Lest she should go astray ; 
But he quite forgot the spool of yarn 

That his wife spun every day. 



CHICKENS. i 

And when the old woman came home at night, 

He said he could plainly see 
That his wife could do more work in a day 

Than he could do in three ! 

And when he saw how well she plowed, 

And made the furrows even, 
Said his wife could do more work in a day 

Than he could do in seven. 

Unknown. 



CHICKENS. 

" I didn't ! " says Chip. " You did ! " says Peep. 

" How do you know? — you were fast asleep." 

"I was under mammy's wing, 

Stretching my legs like anything, 

When all of a sudden I turned around, 

For close beside me I heard a sound — 

A little tip, and a little tap." 

' ; Fiddle-de-dee ! You'd had a nap, 

And, when you were only half awake, 

Heard an icicle somewhere break." 

" What's an icicle ? " " I don't know ; 

Rooster tells about ice and snow. 



90 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Something that isn't as good as meal, 

That drops down on yon and makes yon squeal." 

" Well ! swallow Booster's tales, I beg ! 

And think yon didn't come ont of an egg ! 

I tell yon I heard the old shell break, 

And the first small noise yon ever conld make ; 

And mammy eroodled and puffed her breast, 

And pnshed ns further out of the nest, 

Jnst to make room enough for you ; 

And there's your shell, — I say it's true ! " 

Chip looked over his shoulder then, 

And there it lay by the old gray hen — 

Half an egg-shell, chipped and brown, 

And he was a ball of yellow down, 

Clean and chipper, and smart and spry, 

With the pertest bill and the blackest eye. 

" H'm ! " said he, with a little perk, 

" That is a wonderful piece of work ! 

Peep, you silly ! don't you see 

That shell isn't nearly as big as me ? 

Whatever you say, Miss, I declare 

I never, never could get in there ! " 

" You did ! " says Peep. " I didn't," says Chip ; 

With that he gave her a horrid nip, 

And Peep began to dance and peck, 

And Chip stuck out his wings and neck. 

They pranced, and struck, and capered about, 

Their toes turned in and their wings spread out, 



CHICKENS. 91 

As angry as two small chicks could be, 

Till Mother Dorking turned to see. 

She cackled and clucked, and called in vain, — 

At it they went with might and main, — 

Till at last the old hen used her beak, 

And Peep and Chip, with many a squeak, 

Staggered off on either side, 

With a very funny skip and stride. 

" What dreadful nonsense ! " said Mother Hen, 

When she heard the story told again ; 

" You're bad as the two -legs that don't have 

wings, 
Nor feathers nor combs — the wretched things ! 
That's the way they fight and talk 
For what isn't worth a mullein-stalk. 
What does it matter, I'd like to know, 
Where you came from or where you go? 
Keep your temper and earn your food ; 
I can't scratch worms for a fighting brood. 
I won't have quarrels — I will have peace ; 
I hatched out chickens, so don't be geese ! " 
Chip scratched his ear with his yellow claw, 
The meekest chicken that ever you saw ; 
And Peep in her feathers curled one leg, 
And said to herself, ' ; But he was an egg ! " 

Eose Terry Cooke. 



92 FAVORITE POEMS. 



MY NEIGHBORS BABY. 

Across in my neighbor's window, with its drap- 
ings of satin and lace, 

I see, 'neath its flowing ringlets, a baby's inno- 
cent face ; 

His feet, in crimson slippers, are tapping the 
polished glass, 

And the crowds in the street look npward, and 
nod and smile as they pass. 

Just here in my cottage window, catching flies 
in the sun, 

With a patched and faded apron, stands my own 
little one ; 

His face is as pure and handsome as the baby's 
over the way, 

And he keeps my heart from breaking at my toil- 
ing every day. 

Sometimes when the day is ended, and I sit in 

the dusk to rest, 
"With the face of my sleeping darling hugged 

close to my lonely breast, 
I pray that my neighbor's baby may not catch 

heaven's roses all, 
And that some may crown the forehead of my 

loved one as they fall. 



MY NEIGHBOR'S BABY. 93 

And when I draw the stockings from his little 
weary feet, 

And kiss the rosy dimples in his limbs so round 
and sweet, 

I think of the dainty garments some little chil- 
dren wear, 

And that my God withholds them from mine so 
pure and fair. 

May God forgive my envy — I know not what I 
said ; 

My heart is crushed and troubled — my neighbor's 
boy is dead ! 

I saw the little coffin as they carried it out to- 
day— 

A mother's heart is breaking in the mansion over 
the way. 

The light is fair in my window, the flowers bloom 

at my door, 
My boy is chasing the sunbeams that dance on 

the cottage floor ; 
The roses of health are blooming on my darling's 

cheek to-day, 
But the baby is gone from the window of the 

mansion over the way. 

Unknown. 



94 



FAVORITE POEMS. 



THE LITTLE BOY'S WATCH. 

Dear little Dick, curled up by the fire, 
Sat watching the shadows come and go, 

As the dancing flames leaped higher and higher, 
Flooding the room with a mellow glow. 

His chubby hand on his side was pressed, 
And he turned for a moment a listening ear ; 

"Mother," he cried, "I've got a watch ! 
I can feel it ticking right under here." 

" Yes, Dick, 'tis a watch that God has made, 
To mark your hours as they fly away ; 

He holds the key in His mighty hand, 
And keeps it in order night and day. 

" Should He put aside the mystic key, 
Or lay His hand on the tiny spring, 

The wheels would stop, and your watch run down, 
And lie in your bosom a lifeless thing." 



He crept to my side and whispered soft, 

While his baby voice had an awestruck sound, 

"I wish you would ask Him, mother dear, 
To be sure and remember to keep it wound." 

Unknown. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE, 



Half a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward, 

All in the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

"Forward, the Light Brigade ! 

Charge for the guns ! " he said : 

Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 



II. 



" Forward, the Light Brigade ! 
Was there a man dismay'd? 
Xot tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder d : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die : 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

III. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 



96 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Cannon in front of them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with, shot and shell. 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the month of Hell 
Rode the six hnndred. 

IV. 

Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
Flashed as they turn'd in air 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wonder'd ; 
Plunged in the battery-smoke, 
Eight thro' the line they broke $ 
Cossack and Russian 
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke 

Shattered and sunder'd. 
Then they rode back, but not 

Not the six hundred. 



Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 




Casabianca. 



CASABIAXCA. 97 

They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 
Left of six hundred. 

VI. 

When can their glory fade? 
O the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wonder'd. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Xoble six hundred. 

Texxysox. 



CASABIAXCA. 

The boy stood on the burning deck, 
Whence all but him had fled ; 

The flame that lit the battle's wreck 
Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 
As born to rule the storm, — 

A creature of heroic blood, 
A proud, though childlike, form. 



98 FAVORITE POEMS. 

The flames rolled on — he would not go 

"Without his father's word ; 
That father, faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud: — "Say, father, say 

If yet my task is done ! " 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

" Speak, father ! " once again he cried, 

" If I may yet be gone ! " 
And but the booming shots replied, 

And fast the flames rolled on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath, 

And in his waving hair, 
And looked from that lone port of death 

In still yet brave despair : 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

"My father, must I stay? " 
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapped the ship in splendor wild, 

They caught the flag on high, 
And streamed above the gallant child 

Like banners in the sky. 



A LITTLE BOY'S TROUBLES. 99 

There came a burst of thunder-sound — 

The boy — oh, where was he ? 
Ask of the winds that far around 

With fragments strewed the sea ! — 

With mast and helm, and penuomfair, 
That well had borne their part — 

But the noblest thing that perished there 
Was that young faithful heart ! 

Felicia Hemans. 



A LITTLE BOY'S TROUBLES. 

I thought when I'd learned my letters, 

That all of my troubles were done ; 
But I find myself much mistaken — 

They only have just begun. 
Learning to read was awful, 

But nothing like learning to write ; 
I'd be sorry to have you tell it, 

But my copy-book is a sight ! 

The ink gets over my fingers ; 
The pen cuts all sorts of shines, 



100 FAVORITE POEMS. 

And won't do at all as I bid it ; 

The letters won't stay on the line, 
But go up and down and all over 

As though they were dancing a jig ; 
They are there in all shapes and sizes, 

Medium, little and big. 

The tails of the g's are so contrary, 

The handles get on the wrong side 
Of the d's and the k's and the h's, 

Though I've certainly tried and tried 
To make them just right ; it is dreadful, 

I really don't know what to do ; 
I'm getting almost distracted — 

My teacher says she is, too. 

There'd be some comfort in learning 

If one could get through ; instead 
Of that, there are books awaiting, 

Quite enough to craze my head ; 
There's the multiplication table, 

And grammar, and— oh, dear me ! 
There's no good place for stopping, 

When one has begun, I see. 

My teacher says, little by little 
To the mountain- tops we climb, 

It isn't all done in a minute, 
But only a step at a time ; 



TEE CHILDREN'S BED-TIME. 101 

She says that all the scholars, 

All the wise and learned men, 
Had each to begin as I do ; 

If that's so — there's my pen? 

Carlotta Perry. 



THE CHILDREN'S BED-TIME. 

The clock strikes seven in the hall, 
The curfew of the children's day, 
That calls each little pattering foot 
From dance and song and livelong play ; 
Their day that in our wider light 
Floats like a silver day-moon white, 
Nor in our darkness sinks to rest, 
But sets within a golden West. 

Ah, tender hour that sends a drift 
Of children's kisses through the house, 
And cuckoo notes of sweet " Good-night," 
That thoughts of heaven and home arouse ; 
And a soft stir to sense and heart,* 
As when the bee and blossom part ; 
And little feet that patter slower, 
Like the last droppings of the shower. 



102 FAVORITE POEMS. 

And in the children's rooms aloft 
What blossom shapes do gayly slip 
Their dainty sheaths, and rosy run 
From clasping hand and kissing lip, 
A naked sweetness to the eye — 
Blossom and babe and butterfly 
In witching one, so dear a sight ! 
An ecstasy of life and light. 

And ah, what lovely witcheries 
Bestrew the floor ! an empty sock, 
By vanished dance and song left loose 
As dead birds 7 throats ; a tiny smock 
That, sure, upon some meadow grew, 
And drank the heaven-sweet rains ; a shoe 
Scarce bigger than an acorn cup ; 
Frocks that seem flowery meads cut up. 

The lily-drest in angel-white 
To mother's knee they trooping come, 
The soft palms fold like kissing shells, 
And they and we go singing home — 
Their bright heads bowed and worshipping, 
As though some glory of the spring, 
Some daffodil that mocks the day, 
Should fold his golden palms and pray. 

The gates of Paradise swing wide 
A moment's space in soft accord, 



THE CHILDREN'S BED-TIME. 103 

And those dread angels, Life and Death, 

A moment veil the naming sword, 

As o'er the weary world forlorn 

From Eden's secret heart is borne 

That breath of Paradise most fair, 

Which mothers call "the children's prayer." 

Ah, deep pathetic mystery ! 
The world's great woe unconscious hung, 
A rain drop on a blossom's lip ; 
White innocence that woos our wrong, 
And love divine that looks again, 
Unconscious of the cross and pain, 
From sweet child-eyes, and in that child 
Sad earth and heaven reconciled. 

Then kissed, on beds we lay them down, 
As fragrant white as clover sod, 
And all the upper floors grew hushed 
With children's sleep and dews of God, 
And as our stars their beams do hide, 
Their stars of twilight opening wide, 
Take up the heavenly tale at even, 
And light us on to God and heaven. 

Unknown. 



104 FAVORITE POEMS. 



TIEED MOTHEES. 



A little elbow leans upon your knee, 
Your tired knee that has so much to bear ; 
A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly 
From underneath a thatch of tangled hair ; 
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch 
Of warm, moist fingers holding yours so tight ; 
You do not prize this blessing overmuch : 
You almost are too tired to pray to-night. 

But it is blessedness ! A year ago 

I did not see it as I do to-day — 

We are so dull and thankless and so slow 

To catch the sunshine till it slips away. 

And now it seems surpassing strange to me 

That, while I wore the badge of motherhood, 

I did not kiss more oft and tenderly 

The little child that brought me only good. 

And if, come night, when you sit down to rest, 
You miss this elbow from your tired knee, 
This restless, curly head from off your breast, 
This lisping tongue that chatters constantly; 
If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped 
And ne'er would nestle in your palm again ; 
If the white feet into the grave had tripped, 
I would not blame you for your heartache then. 



A NAUGHTY GIRL. 105 

I wonder so that mothers ever fret 

At little children clinging to their gown ; 

Or that the footprints, when the days are wet, 

Are ever black enough to make them frown. 

If I could find a little mnddy boot, 

Or cap or jacket, on my chamber floor ; 

If I conld kiss a rosy, restless foot, 

And hear it patter in my home once more. 

If I conld mend a broken cart to-day, 
To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky — 
There is no woman in God's world conld say 
She was more blissfully content than I. 
But, ah, the dainty pillow next my own 
Is never rumpled by a shining head ; 
My singing birdling from its nest has flown ; 
The little boy I used'to kiss, is dead. 

Unknown. 



A NAUGHTY GIRL. 

I wish you would just let me be ! 
No — I'm not at all sick, and I didn't get hurt, 
And I do not see why you are calling me " pert "- 

It was you spoke to me I 



106 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Oh yes ! I suppose I must go — 
You're a great big tall lady, and I'm very small, 
And I couldn't put you in the closet at all, 

But there's one thing I know — 

If I had a dear little girl, 
I'd not make a face when she just tore her dress, 
Or called old rice-pudding a horrible mess, 

Or her hair wouldn't curl ! 

Now you needn't look so any more — 
I'm most to the closet, and I don't care a bit, 
But I liope I'll be all wriggled up in a fit 

When you open the door. 

{After an interval of ten minutes.) 

Mamma ! will you open it now? 
I'm a little bit sorry — please let me come out ! 
I most forgot what I was naughty about, 

But I won't anyhow ! 

{After an interval of twenty minutes.) 

Mamma ! dear mamma, do you hear? 
I am ever so sorry — I know I was bad, 
I'll forgive that old pudding for making me mad — 

I'll be good, mamma dear ! 



A BOY'S REMONSTRANCE. 107 

Mamma ! may I just have my dolly ? 
It's so lonesome in here — O mamma ! won't yon 

please f 
I am sitting right down by the door on my knees — 

I'm your own little Polly ! 

(Hie door opens.) 

O my preciousest best little mother ! 
I will never be naughty, no, never again ; 
My heart was all broken — it gave me a pain, 

And I thought I should smother. 

Unknown. 



A BOY'S REMONSTRANCE. 

I am feeling very badly ; everything is going to 

smash ; 
All the things I have believed in are going with 

a crash ! 
The folks are growing learned, and all their 

wretched lore, is 
Used to shake a fellow's faith in his best-loved 

stories. 
The fairies have been scattered, and the genii 

they have gone. 



108 FAVORITE POEMS. 

There are no enchanted castles ; they have van- 
ished, every one. 
Aladdin never lived, and the dear Scheherazade, 
Though very entertaining, was a much mistaken 

lady. 
Of course I see through Santa Claus, — I had to, 

long ago ; 
And Christmas will be going, the next thing that 

I know, 
For I heard — I wasn't listening — I heard the 

parson say 
He had really — yes, had really — grave doubts 

about the day. 
And as for Master Washington, they say the 

goose should catch it 
Who believed a single minute in that story of 

the hatchet. 
They've given a rap at Crusoe, and dear old 

Friday. 
Why! 
We'll all believe in Friday, we boys will, till we 

die! 
They may say it's not " authentic," and such 

like, if they dare ! 
When they strike a blow at Friday, they hit us 

boys. 

So there ! 
And I've been reading in a book, writ by some 

college swell, 



A BOY'S REMOXSTRAXCE. 109 

That there never was a genuine, a real live Will- 
iam Tell ! 
That he was just a myth, or what we boys would 

call a sell ; 
That he didn't shoot the apple, nor Gesler, not 

a bit, — 
That all the other nations have a legend just 

like it, 
I think it's little business for a college man to 

fight 
Against these dear old stories and send them out 

of sight, 
And all the boys are just as mad ! And so the 

girls are, too ; 
And so we called a meeting to decide what we 

should do. 
And we passed some resolutions, because that is 

the one 
And only way for meetings, when it's all that 

can be done. 
I send you here a list : — 
Resolved, that there teas a William 'fell ; 
That by his bow and arrow the tyrant Gesler fell. 
Resolved that he was not a myth, whatever that 

may be, — 
But that he shot the apple and Switzerland was 

free. 
Resolved, that Crusoe lived, and Friday, and the 

goat, 



110 FAVOEITE POEMS. 

Resolved that little Georgy his father's fruit-tree 

smote, 
And owned up like a hero. Resolved, that all 

the science 
Of all the learned professors shall not shake our 

firm reliance 
In the parties we have mentioned; and we do 

hereby make known 
The fact that we boys feel that we have some 

rights of our own, — 

And request that in the future these rights be let 

alone. 

Unknown. 



ADVICE. 

There was once a pretty chicken ; 

But his friends were very few, 
For he thought that there was nothing 

In the world but what he knew. 
So he always in the farm-yard 

Had a very forward way, 
Telling all the hens and turkeys 

What they ought to do and say. 
"Mrs. Goose," he said, "I wonder 

That your goslings you should let 



ADVICE. Ill 

Go out paddling in the water ; 
It will kill them to get wet." 

"And I wish, my old Annt Dorking," 

He began to her one day, 
" That you wouldn't sit all summer 

In your nest upon the hay ; 
Won't you come out to the meadow 

Where the grass with seeds is filled?" 
"If I should," said Mrs. Dorking, 

"Then my eggs would get all chilled." 
"No, they won't," replied the chicken; 

" And no matter if they do. 
Eggs are really good for nothing ; 

What's an egg to me or you?" 

" What's an eggV y said Mrs. Dorking; 

" Can it be you do not know 
You yourself were in an egg-shell 

Just one little month ago? 
And if kind wings had not warmed you, 

You would not be out to-day, 
Telling hens, and geese, and turkeys 

What they ought to do and say ! 
To be very wise, and show it, 

Is a pleasant thing no doubt ; 
But when young folks talk to old folks, 

They should know what they're about." 

Anonymous. 



112 FAVORITE POEMS. 



THEEE NAUGHTY KITTENS. 

There once were three kittens who lived on a 

farm, 
And never were kittens who did so much harm ! 
They worried the chickens, and snarled at the 

hen, 
And scratched at the pig through a hole in the 

pen; 
They climbed on the sty and hnng over the rail, 
And bit off the curl from a little pig's tail ; 
The horses they scared, and they frightened the 

cows, 
By shrieking out at them with dreadful me-ows ; 
They worried the ducks, and they bothered the 

geese, 
And clawed at the ram till he lost all his fleece ; 
They frightened the bossy calf half into fits, 
And spit at the dog till he half lost his wits ; 
They knocked down the turkey and rolled him 

about, 
They rumpled his feathers, and pulled them all 

out; 
Such horrible faces they made at the drake 
He went straight and drowned himself off in the 

lake ; 
They fought the old rooster upon his own hill, 
Till all that was left were his spurs and his bill ; 



THREE NAUGHTY KITTENS. 113 

They drank up the milk, and tipped over the 

cream, 
And gave the old parrot a horrible dream ; 
They chewed up the tab-strings of grandmother's 

cap, 
"While she, poor old lady, was taking a nap. 
So shocking the squealing they made in their 

pride, 
The children all ran, and the baby it cried. 
They played with the meal and the hominy bags, 
And tore them all up into tatters and rags ; 
They climbed by their claws up the farmer's new 

clothes, 
And knocked his gold spectacles off from his 

nose ; 
The meat in the pantry they stole from the hooks, 
And chewed up the children's nice Sunday-school 

books. 
These kittens left nothing at all to itself, 
Save only the mice on the store-closet shelf. 
The farmer's good wife bore it meekly and long, 
Though telling them oft they were naughty and 

wrong ; 
She argued and reasoned by day and by night, 
But nothing could make them behave as was 

right. 
Her patience, one morning, was wholly worn 

out; 
So, ere they discovered what she was about, 



114 FAVORITE POEMS. 

She clapped them all three in a covered tin pail, 
And carried them straight to the great county 

jail. 
And there they have kept them to this very day, 
Locked np in a cell where they can't get away. 

Isabel Frances Bellows. 



A BIRD STORY. 

It's strange how little boys' mothers 
Can find it all out as they do, 

If a fellow does anything naughty, 
Or says anything that's not true ! 

They'll look at you just a moment 
Till your heart in your bosom swells, 

And then they know all about it — 
For a little bird tells. 

Now where the little bird comes from, 
Or where the little bird goes, 

If he's covered with beautiful plumage, 
Or black as the king of the crows, 

If his voice is as hoarse as a raven 
Or clear as the ringing of bells, 

I know not — but this I am sure of — 
A little bird tells ! 



A BIRD STORY. 115 

The moment you think a thing wicked, 
The moment you do a thing bad, 

Are angry or sullen or hateful, 
Get ugly or stupid or mad, 

Or tease a dear brother or sister — 
That instant your sentence he knells, 

And the whole to mamma in a minute 
That little bird tells. 

You may be in the depth of a closet 
Where nobody sees but a mouse, 

You may be all alone in the cellar, 
You may be on the top of the house, 

You may be in the dark and the silence, 
Or out in the woods and the dells — 

No matter ! Wherever it happens, 
The little bird tells. 

And the only contrivance to stop him 

Is just to be sure what you say — 
Sure of your facts and your fancies, 
Sure of your work and your play ; 
Be honest, be brave, and be kindly, 

Be gentle and loving as well, 
And then — you can laugh at the stories 
The little bird tells. 

M. E. B. 



116 FAVORITE POEMS. 

THE LITTLE MOTHER. 

I know a little mother ; 

She's only six years old, 
With eyes the blue of azure, 

And hair like rings of gold. 

She laughs and plays and chatters 
From morning until night, 

And sings like any linnet, 
To every one's delight. 

Her dolls are without number, 

Of every hue and size : 
And some look very stupid, 

And some look very wise. 

There's Bessie, full of mischief, 
Who tumbles from her chair, 

And Rosie, mother's darling, 
Has lost her lovely hair. 

And Susie's nose is broken ; 

She looks so like a fright 
That really little mother 

Just keeps her out of sight. 

Then there's the last new dolly, 
That from the city came ; 






GRAMMAR IN VERSE. 117 

She's dressed up in silk and gaiters, 
But hasn't any name. 

And still this little mother 
Would like just one doll more, 

With curls and coral earrings 
And dress with tucks before. 

With such a house of dollies, 

There's so much work to do 
That everybody wonders 

However she gets through. 

Aunt Clara. 



GRAMMAR IN VERSE. 

1. Three little words you often see 
Are articles — a, an, and tlie. 

2. A noun's the name of anything, 
As school or garden, hoop or swing. 

3. Adjectives tell the kind of a noun, 
As great, small, pretty, white, or brown. 

4. Instead of nouns the pronouns stand- 
Her head, his face, your arm, my hand. 



118 FAVORITE POEMS. 

5. Verbs tell of something being done — 
To read, count, sing, laugh, jump or run. 

6. How things are done the adverbs tell, 
As slowly, quickly, ill, or well. 

7. Conjunctions join the words together, 
As men and women, wind, or weather. 

8. The preposition stands before 
A noun, as in, or through, a door. 

9. The interjection shows surprise, 
As oh ! how pretty ! ah ! how wise ! 

The whole are called nine parts of speech, 
Which reading, writing, speaking teach. 

TJXKXOWN. 



SNOWFLAKES. 

Whenever a snownake leaves the sky, 
It turns and turns to say, u G-ood-by ! 
Good-by, dear cloud, so cool and gray ! " 
Then lightly travels on its way. 



LITTLE BOY BLUE. 119 

And when a snownake finds a tree, 
"Good-day ! " it says, "good-day to thee ! 
Thou art so bare and lonely, dear, 
I'll rest and call my playmates here." 

But when a snownake, brave and meek, 
Lights on a maiden's rosy cheek, 
It starts — "How warm and soft the day ! 
'Tis summer," and it melts away. 

Unknown. 



THE TRUE STORY OF LITTLE BOY 
BLUE. 

Little Boy Blue, so the story goes, 

One morning in summer fell fast asleep, 

When he should have been, as every one knows. 
Watching the cows and sheep. 

All of you children remember what 

Came of the nap on that summer morn ; 

How the sheep got into, the meadow green, 
The cows got into the corn. 



120 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Neglecting a duty is wrong of course, 

But Fve always felt, if we could but know, 

That the matter was made a great deal worse 
Than it should have been ; and so 

I find, in my sifting, that there was one 
More to blame than little Boy Blue ; 

Fm anxious to have full justice done, 
And so, I know, are you. 

The one to blame I have found to be, 
I'm sorry to say it, Little Bopeep ; 

For you will remember, perhaps, that she 
Had trouble about her sheep. 



Well, little Bopeep came tripping along, 

The sheep she tended were running at large ; 

Little Boy Blue sat singing a song, 
Faithfully minding his charge. 

Said little Bopeep, " It's a burning shame 
That you should sit here from week to week ; 

Just leave your work, and we'll play a game 
Of — well — of hide and seek." 

It was dull work, and he liked to play 
Better, I'm sure, than to eat or sleep ; 

He liked the bloom of the summer day, 
He liked — he liked Bopeep. 






LITTLE BOY BLUE. 121 

And so, with many a langh and shout, 

They hid from each other — now here, now 
there ; 

And whether the cows were in or out 
Bopeep had never a care. 

"I will hide once more," said the little maid, 
" You shall not find me this time, I say ; 

Shut your eyes up tight ! " — Boy Blue obeyed — 
" Under the stack of hay." 

"Now wait till I call," said Miss Bopeep, 
And over the meadows she slipped away, 

With never a thought for cows or sheep — 
Alas ! alas ! the day. 

And long and patiently waited he 

For the blithesome call from her rosy lips ; 

He waited in vain — quite like, you see, 
The boy on the burning ship. 

She opened the gate, did Miss Bopeep — 
Such trifles as gates she held in scorn — 

And into the meadows went the sheep, 
And the cows went into the corn. 

By and by, when they found Boy Blue 
In the merest doze, he took the blame ; 

It was very fine, I think, don't you? 
Not to mention Bopeep's name. 



122 FAVORITE POEMS. 

So it has happened that all these years 
He has borne the blame she ought to share ; 

Since I know the truth of it, it appears 
To me it is only fair 

To tell the story from shore to shore, 
From sea to sea, and from sun to sun, 

Because, as I think I said before, 
I like to see justice done. 

And, whatever you've read or seen or heard, 
Believe me, children, I tell the true 

And only genuine — take my word — 
Story of little Boy Blue. 

Unknown. 



GOLDEN KEYS. 

A bunch of golden keys is mine, 

To make each day with gladness shine. 

" G-ood-morning ! " that's the golden key 
That unlocks every day for me. 

"When evening comes, " Good-night ! " I say, 
And close the door of each glad day. 






THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS. 123 

When at the table, " If you please ! n 
I take from off my bunch of keys. 

When friends give anything to me, 
I use a little " Thank you ! " key. 



a 



Excuse me ! beg your pardon ! " too, 
When by mistake some harm I do. 

Or if unkindly harm I've given, 
"Forgive me ! " I shall be forgiven. 

On a golden ring these keys I'll bind, 
This is its motto : "Be ye kind ! » 

Unknown. 



THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS. 

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through 
* the house 

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. 
The stockings were hung by the chimney with 

care, 
In the hope that St. Nicholas soon would be 

there. 



124 FAVORITE POEMS. 

The children were nestled all snug in their beds, 
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their 

heads, 
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, 
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's 

nap ; 
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. 
Away to the window I new like a flash, 
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash ; — 
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow 
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, — 
When what to my wondering eyes should appear 
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, 
With a little old driver so lively and quick 
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, 
And he whistled and shouted and called them by 

name : — 
" Now, Dasher ! now, Dancer ! now, Prancer ! 

now, Vixen ! 
On, Comet, on, Cupid, on D under and Blixen ! 
To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall, 
Now, dash away ! dash away ! dash away all ! " 
As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly, 
When they meet with an obstacle mount to the 

sky, 
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew 
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas, too. 



THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS. 125 

And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof 
The prancing and pawing of each tiny hoof. 
As I drew in my head, and was turning around, 
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a 

bound. 
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his 

foot, 
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and 

soot; 
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, 
And he looked like a peddler just opening his 

pack. 
His eyes — how they twinkled ! his dimples how 

merry ! 
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry ; 
His droll little mouth was drawn up in a bow, 
And the beard o.n his chin was as white as the 

snow; 
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, 
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath. 
He y> r as chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, 
And I laughed when I saw him in spite of my- 
self. 
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, 
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. 
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his 

work, 
And filled all his stockings — then turned with a 

jerk 



126 FATOBITE POEMS. 

And laying his finger aside of his nose. 

And giving a nod, np the chimney he rose. 

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whis- 

tie, ' 
And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle ; 
But I heard him explain, ere he drove ont of 

sight, 
u Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good-night ! '" 

Clement C. Moore. 



THE CHILD AND THE PIPEK. 

Piping down the valleys wild. 
Piping songs of pleasant glee, 

On a cloud I saw a child, 

And he, laughing, said to me, 

"Pipe a song about a lamb," 
So I piped with merry cheer ; 

" Piper, pipe that song again.'' 
So I piped, he wept to hear. 

" Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, 
Sing thy songs of happy cheer.'' 

So I sang the same again, 

While he wept with joy to hear. 



THE BORROWED BABY. 127 

11 Piper, sit thee down and write 

In a book that all may read." 
So he vanished from my sight ; 

And I pluck'd a hollow reed, 

And I made a rural pen, 

And I stain'd the water clear, 

And I wrote my happy songs 
Every child may joy to hear. 

W. Blake. 



THE BORROWED BABY. 

That nice old gentleman over the way 

Came into our house quite early to-day, 

And he said to mamma : " My wife sent me here, 

To borrow something ; " then he looked very queer. 

"It is not sugar, molasses, or tea," 

He said as he pointed his finger at me ; 

" It's that little lass she wants me to bring. 

Wife's growing feeble and childish this spring, 

The weather's been bad, she couldu't get out. 

She sees this little girl running about, 

And fancies she's like our lassie who died, 

'T would do her good if she'd just step inside." 

And then mamma whispered low in my ear : 

"Will you be lent for this morning, my dear? 



128 FAVORITE POEMS. 

That poor old lady is lonely and sad, 
With no little girl to make her heart glad ; 
You'll be a great comfort to her, I know." 
I was just as happy as I could be 
With that dear old lady who borrowed me. 
I sat in her little girl's rocking-chair 
And held her doll with its long flaxen hair, 
While she told about her little girl's ways, 
How happy she was in all her plays ; 
And I spoke the prettiest piece I knew, 
About "a dear baby with eyes of blue, 
With chubby hands and cunning toes 
And dainty mouth as sweet as a rose." 

When I said I must go she asked a kiss, 
I gave her ten, for I knew she must miss 
Her dear little girl. What mamma would be^ 
I'm sure I can't tell if she didn't have me ! 
And I'll go often ; I told her I would ; 
It's one way, you know, that I can do good. 
I'll ask her how she's getting along, 
And stop sometimes to sing her a song, 
Or read her a story — her eyes are quite weak. 
I'll give her kisses, and loving words speak. 
I'm so very glad that old lady sent 
This morning to see if I would be lent, 
And I'll ask the good Lord to bless each day 
That poor lonely mother over the way. 

Mrs. S. T. Perry, 



OUR GREATEST BLESSING. 129 



OUR GREATEST BLESSING. 

"Our greatest blessing," so papa said, 
Tenderly stroking the gold bright head, 
And gently touching a turning curl 
7 Mong Mabel's wealth, our only girl. 

"Our greatest blessing, aye, aye," I cried, 
And drew the darling close to my side, 
And planted a kiss 'pon the brow so fair, 
And gave the red lips an ample share. 

Our boys they are merry, stout and strong, 
With laugh and shout and whistle and song, 
With kites and balls, and marbles and toys, 
Blessings, indeed, are our gladsome boys. 

But when the Lord reached down His hand 
To add this babe to our household band, 
We felt that our cup must overflow, 
"The greatest blessing He could bestow." 

Anna D. Walker. 



130 FAVORITE POEMS. 

BESS AND I. 

Under the shade of the old elm-tree, 

"Where the grass is green and the boughs hang low. 

We've swung our hammock, 

And lie at ease, 
Dreamily swinging to and fro. 
Gently the leaflets round us breathe, 
Lullabies sweet, with softest sigh : 

And I think in the depths 

Of my childish heart, 
None are so happy as Bess and I. 

Circling her lily-white neck, she wears 
A beautiful ribbon of palest blue. 

Silken and soft 

Is her glossy hair, 
And her eyes are calm and true. 
I sing to her songs that are sung to me, 
As, sweetly content, she nestles nigh, 

And call her the dearest 

Of dear pet names. 
Oh ! none are so happy as Bess and I. 

We have visitors, too, in our snug retreat, 
They are fairy-like guests, who softly come : 
For the birds peep 
From the boughs o'erhead, 
And the honey-bees drowsily hum. 





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LINES. 131 

And once on a long, bright, sunny day, 
When I woke from sleep in our shady bower, 

A butterfly lit 

On my -golden curls, 
And maybe he thought I was a flower. 

So under the shade of the old elm-tree 
We merrily pass the hours away ; 

Then, keep the place 

Of our secret well, 
And tell it to no one else, I pray ; 
'Twould break the pleasant and charmed spell 
If curious eyes would peep and pry — 

And, well, Bess is my kitten, 

I'd have you know, 
And none are more happy than Bess and I. 

Mrs. A. M. Tomlixsox. 



LINES. 

If we sit down at set of sun, 

And count the things that we have done, 

And, counting, find 
One self-denying act, one word 
That eased the heart of him who heard ; 

One glance most kind, 



132 FAVORITE POEMS. 

That fell like sunshine where it went, 
Then we may count that day well spent. 

But if through all the life -long day 
"We've eased no heart by yea or nay ; 

If through it all 
We've done no thing that we can trace, 
That brought the sunshine to a face ; 

No act, most small, 
That helped some soul, and nothing cost, 
Then count that day as worse than lost. 

Unknown. 



ALEXANDER SELKIRK. 

I am monarch of all I survey, 

My right there is none to dispute ; 

From the centre all round to the sea 
I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 

Solitude, where are the charms 
That sages have seen in thy face? 

Better dwell in the midst of alarms 
Than reign in this horrible place. 

1 am out of humanity's reach ; 

I must finish my journey alone ; 






ALEXANDER SELKIRK. 133 

Never hear the sweet music of speech — 
I start at the sound of my own. 

The beasts that roam over the plain 
My form with indifference see ; 

They are so unacquainted with men, 
Their tameless is shocking to me. 

Society, friendship, and love, 

Divinely bestow'd upon man, 
O had I the wings of a dove, 

How soon would I taste you again ! 
My sorrows I then might assuage 

In the ways of religion and truth ; 
Might learn from the wisdom of age, 

And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. 

Religion ! what treasure untold 

Resides in that heavenly word ! 
More precious than silver and gold, 

Or all that this earth can afford. 
But the sound of the church-going bell 

These valleys and rocks never heard — 
Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell, 

Or smiled when a Sabbath appeared. 

Ye winds that have made me your sport, 

Convey to this desolate shore 
Some cordial endearing report 

Of a land I shall visit no more. 



134 FAVORITE POEMS. 

My friends, do they now and then send 
A wish or a thought after me ! 

O tell me I yet have a friend,. 

Though a friend I ani never to see. 

How fleet is a glance of the mind ! 

Compared with the speed of its flight, 
The tempest itself lags behind, 

And the swift-winged arrows of light. 
When I think of my own native land, 

In a moment I seem to be there ; 
But, alas! recollection at hand 

Soon hurries me back to despair. 

But the sea-fowl has gone to her nest ; 

The beast is laid down in his lair ; 
Even here is a season of rest, 

And I to my cabin repair. 
There's mercy in every place ; 

And mercy, encouraging thought ! 
Gives even affliction a grace. 

And reconciles man to his lot. 

Unknown. 



THE SEA-GULL. 135 

THE SEA-GULL. 

From tlie Danish. 

A Gull once taking a seaward flight, 

Cried, "Skipper, take in your sail so white ! " 

The open-mouthed skipper looked in the air; 
"You Gull, just stop that noise up there. " 

" O Skipper ! O Skipper ! now shorten sail ! 
In a very short time it will blow a gale." 

" Stuff, you stupid ! who told you so ? 
Are you or I skipper, I'd like to know ? " 

But soon the ocean was tempest-tossed, 

And his ship in the "billows was well-nigh lost. 

The Sea-gull about the vessel flew : 

" You see now, Skipper, I told you true ! " 

And good advice one often hears, 
But the skipper has stopped up both his ears. 
* W. G. K. 



136 FAVORITE POEMS. 

THE CHILD'S PRAYER. 

Into her chamber went 
A little maid one day, 
And by a chair she knelt 

And thns began to pray : 
" Jesus, my eyes I close, — 

Thy form I cannot see ; 
If thou art near me, Lord, 
I pray thee speak to me." 
A still small voice she heard within her sonl, 
" What is it, child? I hear thee— tell me all." 

"I pray thee, Lord," she said, 

" That thou wilt condescend 
To tarry in my heart 

And ever be my friend. 
The path of life is dark — ■ 

I would not go astray ; 
Oh, let me have thy hand 

To lead me in the way." 
" Fear not — I will not leave thee, child, alone." 
She thought she felt a soft hand press her own. 

" They tell me, Lord, ftiat all 

The living pass away — 
The aged soon must die, 

And even children may. 



A LIE. 137 

Oh, let my parents live, 
Till I a woman grow ; 
For if they die, what can 
A little orphan do?" 
" Fear not, my child — whatever ills may come, 
I'll not forsake thee till I bring thee home." 

Her little prayer was said, 

And from her chamber, now, 
She passed forth, with the light 

Of heaven upon her brow. 
" Mother, I've seen the Lord — 

His hand in mine I felt, 
And, oh, I heard him say, 
As by my chair I knelt, 
' Fear not, my child — whatever ills may come, 
I'll not forsake thee till I bring thee home.' " 

Hodges Eeed. 



A LIE. 

She told a lie, a little lie, — 
It was so small and white ; 

She said, "It cannot help but die 
Before another night." 



138 FAVORITE POEMS. 






And then she laughed to see it go, 
And thought it was as white as snow. 

But O, the lie ! it larger grew, 
Nor paused "by night or day, 
And many watched it as it new ; 
And, if it made delay, 
Like something that was near to death, 
They blew it onward with their breath. 

And on its track the mildew fell, 

And there were grief and shame, 
And many a spotless lily-bell 
Was shrivelled as with flame. 
The wings that were so small and white 
Were large and strong, and black as night. 

One day a woman stood aghast, 

And trembled in her place, 
For something flying far and fast 
Had smote her in the face, — 
Something that cried in thunder-tone, 
"I come ! I come ! Take bad your own ! " 

E. M. H. Gates. 



WHICH IS THE BEST? 139 



WHICH IS THE BEST? 

When all the battles are lost and are won, 
The last word spoken, the argument done, 
Which, which is the best land under the sun ? 

The question is pondered by you and by me, 
As our barks are sailing life's mystical sea ; 
But as to the answer, we disagree. 

"Oh, the very best land," says the German, "is 

mine ! n 
And his heart beats quick and his moist eyes 

shine 
As he loudly sings Die Wacht Am Rhine. 

But the Frenchman jeers at the German's praise, 
While a tribute to France you hear him raise 
In the fervent strains of the Marsellaise. 

At the Frenchman's boasting, the Scotchman 

cries : 
" What land so bonny beneath the skies 
As the land where the great Sir Walter lies? " 

Then a Muscovite voice is heard to declare : 
" Were my fellow-creatures but wise and fair, 
They'd dote to a man on the Russian bear." 



140 FAVORITE POEMS. 

The Irishman answers with a scornful smile : 

" Go over the universe mile by mile, 

And you'll find no land like the Emerald Isle." 

The Englishman comments in accents bland : 
"I'm thinking there's only one civilized land, 
And Britain's its name, you must understand." 

The Yankee, rising, with deep emotion, 
Exclaims, " I'm firmly set in the notion 
My eagle's the gem of the land or the ocean ! " 

So, after the battles are lost and won, 
The last word spoken, the argument done, 
Which, which is the best land under the sun? 

The question is pondered by you and by me, 
As our barks are sailing life's mystical sea, 
And, on second thinking, we all agree. 

We are not divided, saving in name ; 

In essence each choice is really the same, 

It springs from a common, ineffable flame. 

Whatever our race, wherever we roam, 
The spot that is dearest to each is home, 
The toast drank deepest is, "Home, sweet 
Home." 

Unknown. 



ONLY A SMILE. 141 



ONLY A SMILE. 

Only a smile was given me 

On the crowded street one day, 
But it pierced the gloom of my saddened heart 

Like a sunbeam's ray. 
The shadows of doubt hung o'er me, 

And the burden of pain I bore, 
And the voice of hope I could not hear, 

Though I listened o'er and o'er. 

But there came a rift in the crowd about, 

And a face that I knew passed by, 
And the smile I caught was brighter to me 

Than the blue of a summer sky ; 
For it gave me back the sunshine, 

And it scattered each somber thought, 
And my heart rejoiced in the kindly warmth 

Which that kindly smile had wrought. 

Only a smile from a kindly face 

On the busy street that day ; 
Forgotten as soon as given, perhaps, 

As the donor went her way ; 
But straight to my heart it went speeding 

To gild the clouds that were there, 
And I found that of sunshine and life's blue skies 

I also might take my share. 

George McDonald. 



142 FAVORITE POEMS. 



THE BUTTERFLY. 



Out in the garden, wee Elsie 

Was gathering flowers for me ; 

"Oh, mamma/' she cried, " hurry, hurry, 

Here's something I want you to see." 

I went to the window ; before her 

A velvet-winged butterfly flew, 

And the pansies themselves were not brighter 

Than the beautiful creature in hue. 

" Oh ! isn't it pretty? " cried Elsie, 

With eager and wondering eyes, 

As she watched it soar lazily upward 

Against the soft blue of the skies. 

"I know what it is, don't you, mamma?" 

(Oh ! the wisdom of these little things, 

When the soul of the poet is in them !) 

"It's a pansy — a pansy with wings." 

Unknown, 






THE SUNBEAM. 

"What good am I?" asked a Sunbeam bright, 

And speaking sighed ; 
" So small a particle am I of the great light, 

I might have died ! " 



THE SUNBEAM. 143 

It fell upon a prisoner's dark, damp cell, 

Upon the floor ; 
The sinner felt it like a magic spell, 

Unknown before. 

It touched the frozen heart and bid it burn 

With heavenly love, 
So gently that the culprit could not spurn 

The message from above. 

The Sunbeam fell upon a young child's head, 

And gave him joy ; 
He laughed with glee as it fell glowing red, — 

Called it a pretty toy. 

The Sunbeam on a dying Christian fell, 

As with a sigh ; 
A look of glad surprise, such as no words can tell, 

Glanced from his eye. 

The Sunbeam fell upon a baby's cot, 

And kissed his brow ; 
The mother saw — the infant felt it not, 

He was in Heaven now. 

But to the mother's heart it comfort brought 

For her relief ; 
It drew her heavenward, purified her thought, 

And soothed her grief. 



144 FAVORITE POEMS. 

And after that the Sunbeam could not say, 

"What use ami? 
I am so small a particle of day, 

Pd better die ! " 

But now it humbly thanked the Lord of all, 

Who made it bright ; 
A messenger of love, the wandering to call 

Into His light. 

And ere it sank at closing of the day, 

He saw— and said, 

1 ' Faithfully thou hast served ; " and it went on its 

way, 

Blushing with red. 

Unknown. 



ON THE LANDING. 

AN IDYL OF THE BALUSTERS. 

Bobby, aetat 33^. Johnny, aetat 4^>. 

Bobby. 

" Do you know why they've put us in that back 

room, 
Up in the attic, close against the sky, 
And made believe our nursery's a cloak-room? 

Do you know why ? " 



OX THE LANDING. 145 

Johnny. 

" No more I don't, nor why that Sammy's mother 
What ma thinks horrid, 'cause he bunged my eye, 
Eats an ice cream, down there, like any other — 

No more don't I ! " 

Bobby. 

" Do you know why Nurse says it isn't manners 
For you and me to ask folks twice for pie, 
And no one hits that man with two bananas ? 

Do you know why? " 

Johnny. 

" No more I don't, nor why that girl whose dress is 
Off her shoulders, don't catch cold and die, 
When you and me gets croup when we undresses ! 

No more don't I ! " 

Bobby. 

" Perhaps she ain't as good as you and I is, 
And God don't want her up there in the sky, 
And lets her live — to come in just when pie is — 

Perhaps that's why ! " 

Johnny. 

" Do you know why that man that's got a cropped 

head 
Rubbed it just now as if he felt a fly ? 
Could it be, Bobby, something that I drop-ded ! 

And is that why?" 






146 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Bobby. 

"Grood boys behaves, and so they don't get 

scalded, 
Nor drop hot milk on folks as they pass by." 

Johnny {piously). 

"Marbles would bounce on Mr. Jones's bald 
head — 

But I shan't try ! " 

Bobby. 

" Do yon know why Annt Jane is always snarling 
At yon and me because we tells a lie, 
And she don't slap that man that called her dar- 
ling? 

Do you know why ? " 

Johnny. 

" No more I don't, nor why that man with mamma 
Just kissed her hand." 

Bobby. 

" She hurt it — and that's why, 

He made it well, the very way that mamma 

Does to I." 

Johnny. 

"I feel so sleepy. ■■, . . Was that papa kissed us? 
What made him sigh, and look up in the sky?" 






BABY FINGERS. 147 

Bobby. 

11 We wer'n't downstairs, and he and God had 

missed us, 

And that was why ! " 

Bret Harte. 



BABY FINGERS. 

Ten fat little fingers, so taper and neat, 
Ten fat little fingers, so rosy and sweet, 
Eagerly reaching for all that comes near, 
Now poking your eyes out, now pulling your hair, 
Smoothing and patting, with velvet-like touch, 
Then digging your cheeks with a mischievous 

clutch ; 
Gently waving good-by with infantine grace, 
Then dragging your bonnet down over your face ; 
Beating pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, slow and sedate, 
Then tearing a book at a furious rate ; 
Gravely holding them out, like a king, to be 

kissed, 
Then thumping the window with tightly closed 

fist; 
Now lying asleep, all dimpled and warm, 
On the white cradle-pillow, secure from all harm — 



148 FAVORITE POEMS, 

Oh, dear baby hands ! how much love you enfold 
In the weak, careless clasp of those fingers' soft 

hold ! 
Keep spotless, as now, through the world's evil 

ways, 
And bless, with fond care, our last weariful days. 

Mrs. Richard Grant White. 



WILLIE WINKIE. 

Wee Willie Winkie 

Runs through the town, 
Up-stairs and down-stairs 

In his night-gown, 
Tapping at the window, 

Crying at the lock, 
" Are the weans in their bed, 

For it's now ten o'clock?" 

"Hey! Willie Winkie, 

Are you coming then? 
The cat's singing purrie 

To the sleeping hen ; 
The dog is lying on the floor 

And does not even peep ; 
But here's a wakeful laddie 

That will not fall asleep." 



WILLIE JTIXKIE. 149 

Anything but sleep, you rogue ! 

Glowering like the moon ; 
Rattling in an iron jug 

With an iron spoon ; 
Rumbling, tumbling all about, 

Crowing like a cock, 
Screaming like I don't know what, 

Waking sleeping folk. 

"Hey! Willie Winkie, 

Can't you keep him still ? 
W r riggling off a body's knee 

Like a very eel ; 
Pulling at the cat's ear, 

As she drowsy hums ; — 
Heigh, Willie Winkie ! 

See ! — there he comes ! " 

Wearied is the mother 

That has a restless wean, 
A wee, stumpy bairn ie, 

Heard whene'er he's seen — 
That has a battle aye with sleep 

Before he'll close an e'e ; 
But a kiss from off his rosy lips 

Gives strength anew to me. 

William Miller. 



150 FAVORITE POEMS. 



SEVEN TIMES ONE. 

There's no dew left on the daisies and clover. 

There's no rain left in heaven : 
I've said my u seven times " over and over, 

Seven times one are seven. 

I am old, so old I can write a letter ; 

My birthday lessons are done ; 
The lambs play always, they know no better, — 

They are only one times one. 

Moon ! in the night I have seen yon sailing 
And shining so round and low ; 

You were bright, ah bright ! but your light is 
failing, — 
You are nothing now but a bow. 

You Moon, have you done something wrong in 
heaven, 
That God has hidden your face ? 

1 hope if you have, you will soon be forgiven, 
And shine again in your place. 

O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow ; 

You've powdered your legs with gold ! 
brave marshmary buds, rich and yellow, 

Give me your money to hold ! 



STOP, STOP, PRETTY WATER. 151 

O columbine, open your folded wrapper, 
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! 

cuckoo-pint, toll me the purple clapper 
That hangs in your clear green bell ! 

And show me your nest, with the young ones in 
it,— 
I will not steal it away ; 

1 am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet, — 
I am seven times one to-day. 

Jean Ingelow. 



STOP, STOP, PRETTY WATER, 

" Stop, stop, pretty water ! " 

Said Mary, one day, 
To a frolicsome brook, 

That was running away. 

"You run on so fast ! 

I wish you would stay ; 
My boat and my flowers 

You will carry away. 

" But I will run after : 
Mother says that I may ; 

For I would know where 
You are running away." 



152 FAVORITE POEMS. 

So Mary ran on ; 

But I have heard say, 
That she never could find 

Where the brook ran away. 

Mrs. Follex. 



WINTER, 

Old winter is a sturdy one, 
And lasting stuff he's made of : 

His flesh is firm as ironstone, 
There's nothing he's afraid of. 

He spreads his coat upon the heath, 

Nor yet to warm it lingers ; 
He scouts the thought of aching teeth, 

Or chilblains on his fingers. 

Of flowers that bloom or birds that sing, 
Full little cares or knows he ; 

He hates the fire, and hates the spring, 
And all that's warm and cozy. 

But when the foxes bark aloud 

On frozen lake and river, — 
When round the fire the people crowd, 

And rub their hands and shiver, — 



THE DAY IS DONE. 153 

When frost is splitting stone and wall, 

And trees come crashing after, 
That hates he not, he loves it all, — 

Then bursts he out in laughter. 

His home is by the North Pole's strand, 
Where earth and sea are frozen ; 

His summer-house, we understand, 
In Switzerland he's chosen. 

Now from the North he's hither hied, 
To show his strength and power ; 

And when he comes we stand aside, 
And look at him and cower. 

From the German. 



THE DAY IS DONE. 

The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist, 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, 

That my soul cannot resist. 



154 FAVORITE POEMS. 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain, 
And resembles sorrow only 
As the mist resembles the rain. 

Come, read to me some poem, 
Some simple and heartfelt lay, 

That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
And banish the thoughts of Day. 

Not from the grand old masters, 
Not from the bards sublime, 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Throngh the corridors of Time. 

For. like strains of martial music, 
Their mighty thonghts snggest 

Life's endless toil and endeavor; 
And to-night I long for rest. 

Eead from some humbler poet, 

Whose songs gnshed from his heart, 

As showers from the elonds of summer, 
Or tears from the eyelids start ; 

"Who. through long days of labor, 
And nights devoid of ease, 

Still heard in his soul the music 
Of wonderful melodies. 






LUCY QUAY; OR, SOLITUDE. 155 

Such songs have power to quiet 

The restless pulse of care, 
And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice. 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled with music, 
And the cares that infest the day 

Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 

Longfellow. 



LUCY GKAY; OR, SOLITUDE. 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray : 
And, when I crossed the wild, 

I chanced to see at break of day 
The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; 

She dwelt on a wide moor, — 
The sweetest thing that ever grew 

Beside a human door ! 



156 FAVORITE POEMS. 

You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
The hare upon the green ; 

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
Will never more be seen. 

" To-night will be a stormy night — 
You to the town must go ; 

And take a lantern, child, to light 
Your mother through the suow." 

" That, father, will I gladly do : 

? Tis scarcely afternoon — 
The minster-clock has just struck two, 

And yonder is the moon ! " 

At this the father raised his hook, 
And snapped a fagot-band ; 

He plied his work ; — and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe : 
With many a wanton stroke 

Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 
That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time : 
She wandered up and down, 

And many a hill did Lucy climb, 
But never reached the town. 



LUCY GRAY; OB, SOLITUDE. 157 

The wretched parents all that night 

Went shouting far and wide ; 
But there was neither sound nor sight 

To serve them for a guide. 

At daybreak on a hill they stood 

That overlooked the moor ; 
And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 

A furlong from their door. 

They wept — and, turning homeward, cried, 
" In heaven we all shall meet ! " 

When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy's feet. 

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge 
They tracked the footmarks small ; 

And through the broken hawthorn hedge, 
And by the long stone wall ; 

And then an open field they crossed : 
The marks were still the same ; 

They tracked them on, nor ever lost, 
And to the bridge they came. 

They followed from the snowy bank 

Those footmarks, one by one, 
Into the middle of the plank ; 

And further there were none ! — 



158 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Yet some maintain that to this day 

She is a living child ; 
That yon may see sweet Lucy Gray 

Upon the lonesome wild. 

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 

And never looks behind ; 
And sings a solitary song 

That whistles in the wind. 

Wordsworth. 



THE BLIND BOY. 

Oh, say what is that thing called Light, 

Which I must ne'er enjoy ; 
What are the blessings of the Sight? 

Oh, tell your poor blind boy ! 

You talk of wondrous things you see ; 

You say the sun shines bright ; 
I feel him warm, but how can he 

Or make it day or night? 

My day or night myself I make 

Whene'er I sleep or play ; 
And could I ever keep awake 

With me 'twere always day. 



CHOOSING A NAME. 159 

With heavy sighs I often hear 

You mourn my hapless woe ; 
But sure with patience I can bear 

A loss I ne'er can know. 

Then let not what I cannot have 

My cheer of mind destroy : 
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, 

Although a poor blind boy. 

COLLEY ClBBER 



CHOOSING A NAME. 

I have got a new-born sister ; 

I was nigh the first that kissed her. 

When the nursing-woman brought her 

To papa, his infant daughter, 

How papa's dear eyes did glisten ! — 

She will shortly be to christen ; 

And papa has made the offer 

I shall have the naming of her. 

Now I wonder what would please her,- 
Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa? 
Ann and Mary, they're too common ; 
Joan's too formal for a woman ; 



160 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Jane's a prettier name beside, 
But we had a Jane that died. 
They would say, if ? twas Rebecca, 
That she was a little Quaker. 
Edith's pretty, but that looks 
Better in old English books ; 
Ellen's left off long ago, 
Blanche is out of fashion now. 
None that I have named as yet 
Are as good as Margaret. 
Emily is neat and fine ; 
What do you think of Caroline? 
How I'm puzzled and perplexed 
What to choose or think of next ! 
I am in a little fever 
Lest the name that I should give her 
Should disgrace her or defame her ; — 
I will leave papa to name her. 

Mary Lame 



FRIENDSHIP. 

My boat is on the shore, 
And my bark is on the sea ; 

But, before I go, Tom Moore, 
Here's a double health to thee ! 



DO EIGHT. 161 

Here's a sigh to those who love me, 
And a smile to those who hate ; 

And, whatever sky's above me, 
Here's a heart for every fate. 

Though the ocean roar around me, 

Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
Though a desert should surround me, 

It hath springs that may be won. 

Were 't the last drop in the well, 

As I gasped upon the brink, 
Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'Tis to thee that I would drink. 

With that water, as this wine, 

The libation I would pour 
Should be, " Peace with thine and mine, 
And a health to thee, Tom Moore ! " 

Byron. 



DO EIGHT. 

I love to do right j 

And I love the truth ; 

And I'll always love them, 
While in my youth. 



162 FAVORITE POEMS. 

And when I grow old, 
And when I grow gray, 

I will love them still, 
Depart who may. 






Unknown. 



CRADLE HYMN. 

Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber, 

Holy angels guard thy bed ; 
Heavenly blessings without number, 

Gently falling on thy head. 

Sleep, my babe, thy food and raiment, 
House and home, thy friends provide ; 

All without thy care, or payment, 
All thy wants are well supplied. 

Soft and easy is thy cradle ; 

Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, 
When His birthplace was a stable, 

And His softest bed was hay. 

Blessed Babe ! what glorious features, 
Spotless, fair, divinely bright ! 

Must He dwell with brutal creatures? 
How could angels bear the sight? 



CRADLE HYMN. 163 

Was there nothing but a manger 

Cursed sinners could afford 
To receive the heavenly Stranger? 

Did they thus affront the Lord ? 

Soft, my child, I did not chide thee, 

Though my song might sound too hard ; 

'Tis thy mother sits beside thee, 
And her arms shall be thy guard. 

V 

Yet to read the shameful story, 

How the Jews abused the King — 
How they served the Lord of glory, 

Makes me angry while I sing. 

See the kinder shepherds round Him, 

Telling wonders from the sky ; 
Where they sought Him, there they found Him, 

With His virgin mother by. 

See the lovely babe a-dressing ; 

Lovely infant, how he smiled ; 
When He wept, the mother's blessing 

Soothed and hushed the Holy Child. 

Lo, He slumbers in the manger, 

Where the horned oxen fed ! 
Peace, my darling, here's no danger, 

There's no oxen near thy bed. 



164 FAVORITE POEMS. 

'Twas to save thee, child, from dying, 
Save my dear from burning flame, 

Bitter groans and endless crying, 
That thy blest Redeemer came. 

May'st thou live to know and fear Him, 
Trust and love Him all thy days ; 

Then go dwell forever near Him, 
See His face and sing His praise. 

I could give thee thousand kisses, 

Hoping what I most desire ; 
Not a mother's fondest wishes 

Can to greater joys aspire. 

Dr. Watts. 



THE HEAVY BRIGADE. 

The charge of the gallant three hundred, the 
Heavy Brigade ! 

Down the hill, down the hill, thousands of Rus- 
sians, 

Thousands of horsemen, drew to the valley — and 
stayed ; 



THE HEAVY BRIGADE. 165 

For Scarlett and Scarlett's three hundred were 

riding by 
VThen the points of the Russian lances arose in 

the sky: 
And he called. ''Left wheel into line ! " and they 

wheeled and obeyed. 
Then he looked at the host that had halted he 

knew not why. 
And he turned half round,, and he bade his 

trumpeter sound 
To the charge, and he rode on ahead, as he waved 

his blade 
To the gallant three hundred whose glory will 

never die — 
"Follow." and up the hill, up the hill, up the hill. 
Followed the Heavy Brigade. 

The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, and the 

might of the fight ! 
Thousands of horsemen had gathered there on 

the height. 
With a wing pushed out to the left and a wing 

to the right. 
And who shall escape if they close f but he dashed 

up alone 
Through the great gray slope of men. 
Swayed his sabre, and held his own 
Like an Englishman there and then ; 



166 FAVORITE POEMS. 

All in a moment followed with force 
Three that were next in their fiery course, 
Wedged themselves in between horse and horse, 
Fought for their lives in the narrow gap they 

had made — 
Four amid thousands ! and up the hill, up the 

hill, 
Gallopt the gallant three hundred, the Heavy 

Brigade. 

Fell like a cannon-shot, 

Burst like a thunderbolt, 

Crashed like a hurricane, 

Broke through the mass from below, 

Drove through the midst of the foe, 

Plunged up and down, to and fro, 

Kode flashing blow upon blow, 

Brave Inniskillens and Grays 

Whirling their sabres in circles of light ! 

And some of us, all in amaze, 

Who were held for a while from the fight, 

And were only standing at gaze, 

When the dark-muffled Russian crowd 

Folded its wings from the left and the right, 

And rolled them around like a cloud, — 

O mad for the charge and the battle were we, 

When our own good red coats sank from sight, 

Like drops of blood in a dark gray sea, 



THE HEAVY BRIGADE. 167 

And we turned to each other, whispering, ull 

dismayed, 
"Lost are the gallant three hundred of Scarlett's 

Brigade ! n 

u Lost one and all n were the words 

Muttered in our dismay ; 

But they rode like Victors and Lords 

Through the forests of lances and swords 

In the heart of the Russian hordes, 

They rode, or they stood at bay — 

Struck with the sword-hand and slew, 

Down with the bridle-hand drew 

The foe from the saddle and threw 

L T nderfoot there in the fray — 

Ranged like a storm or stood like a rock 

In the wave of a stormy day ; 

Till suddenly shock upon shock 

Staggered the mass from without, 

Drove it in wild disarray, 

For our men gallopt up with a cheer and a shout, 

And the foemen surged, and wavered and reeled 

Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out of the field, 

And over the brow and away. 

Glory to each and all, and the charge that they 

made ! 
Glory to all the three hundred, and all the Bri- 



Texxysox. 



168 FAVORITE POEMS. 



AMONG GREEN, PLEASANT MEADOWS. 

Among green, pleasant meadows, 

All in a grove so wild, 
Was set a marble image 

Of the Virgin and her Child. 

How oft, on summer evenings, 

A lovely boy would rove, 
To play beside the image 

That sanctified the grove. 

Oft sat his mother by him, 

Among the shadows dim, 
And told how the Lord Jesus 

Was once a child like him. 

" And now from highest heaven 
He doth look down each day, 

And sees whate'er thou doest, 
And hears what thou dost say ! n 

Thus spoke his tender mother ; 

And, on an evening bright, 
When the red, round sun descended 

'Mid clouds of crimson light, 



AMONG GREEN, PLEASANT MEADOWS. 169 

Again the boy was playing ; 

And earnestly said he, 
" beautiful child Jesus, 

Come down and play with me ! 

"I will find thee flowers the fairest, 
And weave for thee a crown ; 

I will get thee ripe, red strawberries, 
If thou wilt but come down. 

" O holy, holy mother ! 

Put him down from off thy knee ; 
For in these silent meadows 

There are none to play with me." 

Thus spoke the boy so lonely, 
The while his mother heard, 

And on his prayer she pondered, 
But spoke to him no word. 

The self-same night she dreamed 

A lovely dream of joy : 
She thought she saw young Jesus 

There, playing with the boy. 

"And for the fruits and flowers 
Which thou hast brought to me, 

Rich blessing shall be given 
A thousand-fold to thee. 



170 FAVOBITE POEMS. 

" For in the fields of heaven 
Thou shalt roam with me at will ; 

And of bright fruit celestial 

Thou shalt have, dear child, thy fill ! " 

Thus tenderly and kindly 
The fair child Jesus spoke ; 

And, full of careful musings, 
The anxious mother woke. 

And thus it was accomplished : 
In a short month and a day, 

That lovely hoy, so gentle, 
Upon his death-bed lay. 

And thus he spoke, in dying : 

"O mother dear, I see 
The beautiful child Jesus 

A-coming down to me ! 

" And in his hand he beareth 

Bright flowers as white as snow, 
And red and juicy strawberries ; — 



Dear mother, let me go 



I » 



He died — but that fond mother 

Her sorrow did restrain ; 
For she knew he was with Jesus, 

And she asked him not again. 

From the German of Herder 



LITTLE TRIXGS. 171 



LITTLE THINGS. 



Little drops of water, 

Little grains of sand, 
Make the mighty ocean, 

And the pleasant land. 

Thus the little minutes, 
Humble though they be, 

Make the mighty ages 
Of eternity. 

Thus our little errors 

Lead the soul away 
From the path of virtue, 

Off in sin to stray. 

Little deeds of kindness, 

Little words of love, 
Make our earth an Eden, 

Like the heaven above. 

Unknown. 



172 FAVORITE POEMS. 



THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON-LOW. 

" And where have you been, my Mary, 
And where have yon been from me ? " 

"I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low, 
The midsummer night to see ! w 

" And what did you see. my Mary, 

All up on the Caldon-Low ? " 
"I saw the blithe sunshine come down, 

And I saw the merry winds blow." 

"And what did you hear, my Mary, 

All up on the Caldon Hill? " 
"I heard the drops of water made, 

And I heard the corn-ears fill." 

" Oh tell me all, my Mary — 

All, all that ever you know ; 
For you must have seen the fairies 

Last night on the Caldon-Low." 

" Then take me on your knee, mother, 

And listen, mother of mine : 
A hundred fairies danced last night, 

And the harpers they were nine ; 



THE FAIB1ES OF THE CALDOX-LOW. 173 

"And merry was the glee of the harp-strings, 
And their dancing feet so small ; 

But oh ! the sound of their talking 
Was merrier far than all ! " 

"And what were the words, my Mary, 

That you did hear them say?" 
" I'll tell you all, my mother, 

But let me have my way. 

" And some they played with the water 

And rolled it down the hill ; 
'And this,' they said, ' shall speedily turn 

The poor old miller's mill ; 

" ' For there has been no water 

Ever since the first of May ; 
And a busy man shall the miller be 

By the dawning of the day ! 

" * Oh the miller, how he will laugh, 

When he sees the mill-dam rise ! 
The jolly old miller, how he will laugh, 

Till the tears fill both his eyes ! ' 

" And some they seized the little winds, 

That sounded over the hill, 
And each put a horn into his mouth, 

And blew so sharp and shrill ! 



174 FAVORITE POEMS. 

" 'And there/ said they, 'the merry winds go 

Away from every horn ; 
And those shall clear the mildew dank 

From the blind old widow's corn : 

" i Oh the poor blind widow — 
Though she has been blind so long, 

She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone, 
And the corn stands stiff and strong ! ' 

" And some they brought the brown linseed, 

And flung it down from the Low : 
'And this,' said they, 'by the sunrise, 

In the weaver's croft shall grow ! 

" ' Oh the poor lame weaver ! 

How will he laugh outright 
When he sees his dwindling flax-field 

All full of flowers by night ! ' 

" And then up spoke a brownie, 

With a long beard on his chin ; 
'I have spun up all the tow,' said he, 

'And I want some more to spin. 

" 'I've spun a piece of hempen cloth, 

And I want to spin another — 
A little sheet for Mary's bed 

And an apron for her mother ! ' 






THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON-LOW. V 

"And with that I could not help but laugh, 
And I laughed out loud and free ; 

And then on the top of the Caldon-Low, 
There was no one left but me. 

"And all on the top of the Caldon-Low 

The mists were cold and gray. 
And nothing I saw but the mossy stones 

That round me lay. 

"But as I came down from the hill-top, 

I heard, afar below. 
How busy the jolly miller was. 

And how merry the wheel did go ! 

" And I peeped into the widow's field, 

And, sure enough, was seen 
The yellow ears of the mildewed corn 

All standing stiff and green ! 

" And down by the weaver's croft I stole. 

To see if the flax were high ; 
But I saw the weaver at his gate 

With the good news in his eye ! 

" Now, this is all that I heard, mother. 

And all that I did see ; 
So, prithee, make my bed, mother. 

For I'm tired as I can be ! " 

Mary Howitt, 



176 



FAYOBITE POEMS. 



LADY MOON, LADY MOON. 

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving? 

Over the sea. 
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are yon loving? 

All that love me. 

Are yon not tired with rolling, and never 

Eesting to sleep ? 
YVhy look so pale and so sad, as forever 

Wishing to weep? 

Ask me not this, little child, if yon love me : 

Yon are too bold : 
I mnst obey my dear Father above me, 

And do as I'm told. 



Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are yon roving? 

Over the sea. 
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving? 

All that love me. 

Lord Houghton. 



JACK FROST. 177 



JACK FROST. 

The Frost looked forth on a still, clear night, 
And whispered, " Now, I shall be out of sight ; 
So, through the valley, and over the height, 
In silence PU take my way. 
I will not go on like that blustering train, 
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, 
That make such a bustle and noise in vain ; 
But I'll be busy as they ! n 

So he new to the mountain, and powdered its 

crest, 
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed 
With diamonds and pearls ; and over the breast 
Of the quivering lake, he spread 
A coat of mail, that it need not fear 
The glittering point of many a spear 
Which he hung on its margin, far and near, 
Where a rock could rear its head. 

He went to the window of those who slept, 
And over each pane like a fairy crept : 
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped, 
By the morning light was seen 
Most beautiful things ! — there were flowers and 

trees, 
There were bevies of birds, and swarms of bees ; 



178 FAVORITE POEMS. 

There were cities and temples, and towers ; and 

these 
All pictured in silvery sheen ! 

But he did one thing that was hardly fair — 
He peeped in the cupboard : and finding there 
That all had forgotten for him to prepare. 
" Now, just to set them thinking, 
I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he, 
" This costly pitcher I'll burst in three ! 
And the glass of water they've left for me, 
Shall ' follicle f to tell them I'm drinking." 

Hannah F. Gould. 



A MASQUERADE. 

A little old woman before me 
Went slowly down the street ; 

Walking as if aweary 
Were her feeble, tottering feet. 

From under her old poke-bonnet 
I caught a gleam of snow, 

And her waving cap-strings floated, 
Like a pennon, to and fro. 



A MASQUERADE, 179 

In the folds of her rusty mantle 

Sudden her footstep caught, 
And I sprang to keep her from falling, 

"With a touch as quick as thought. 

When, under the old poke-bonnet, 

I saw a winsome face, 
Framed in with the flaxen ringlets 

Of my wee daughter Grace. 

Mantle and cape together 

Dropped off at my very feet ; 
And there stood the little fairy, 

Beautiful, blushing, sweet ! 

Will it be like this, I wonder, 

When at last we come to stand 
On the golden, ringing pavement 

Of the blessed, blessed land? 

Losing the rusty garments 

We wore in the years of Time, 
Will our better selves be backward, 

Serene in a youth sublime? 

Instead of the shapes that hid us, 

And made us old and gray, 
Shall we get our child-hearts back again, 

With a brightness that will stay? 



180 FAVORITE POEMS. 

I thought — but my little daughter 
Slipped her dimpled haud in mine ; 

"I was only playing," she whispered, 
"That I was ninety-nine." 

Unknown. 



"A BIRD IN THE HAND IS WORTH 
TWO IN THE BUSH." 

In the hand — fluttering fearfully — 

Lonely and helpless, — poor little thing ! 

In the bush — peeping out cheerfully, 
Two together, gaily they sing ! 

Why is it best to have one in the hand? 

Father, tell me, — I don't understand. 

" Best it is because you have hold of it ; 

Child, it is only a figure of speech ; 
Sunset shines, you look at the gold of it, 

Knowing well it is out of your reach ; 
But the sixpence your godmother gave, 
Yours it is, to spend or save." 

Ah, that sixpence ! already I've done with it ; 

Never a penny with me will stay. 
If I could buy but an inch of the sun with it, 

I might look at it every day. 



THE SEASONS. 181 

Father, the birds shall stay in their nest ! 
Things that we never can have are the best. 

Poems Written for a Child. 



THE SEASONS. 



SPRING. 



With March comes in the pleasant spring, 
When little birds begin to sing ; 
To build their nests, to hatch their brood. 
With tender care provide them food. 



SUMMER. 



And summer comes with verdant June ; 
The flowers then are in full bloom, 
All nature smiles, the fields look gay ; 
The weather's fine to make the hay. 



AUTUMN. 



September comes ; the golden corn 
By many busy hands is shorn ; 
Autumn's ripe fruits, an ample store, 
Are gathered in for rich and poor. 



182 FAVORITE POEMS. 



WINTER. 



"Winter's cold frost and northern blast — 
This is the season that comes last : 
The snow has come, the sleigh-bells ring, 
And merry boys rejoice and sing. 

Unknown, 



V 



MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB. 

Mary had a little lamb, 
Its fleece was white as snow ; 

And everywhere that Mary went, 
The lamb was snre to go. 

He followed her to school one day — 
That was against the rnle ; 

It made the children langh and play 
To see a lamb at school. 

So the teacher turned him out, 
But still he lingered near, 

And waited patiently about, 
Till Mary did appear. 



THE JOHNNY-CAKE. 183 

Then he ran to her, and laid 

His head upon her arm, 
As if he said, u I'm not afraid, 

You'll keep me from all harm." 

" What makes the lamb love Mary so ? n 

The eager children cry. 
"Oh, Mary loves the lamb, you know," 

The teacher did reply. 

And you each gentle animal 

In confidence may bind, 
And make them follow you at will, 

If you are only kind. 

Songs for Children. 



THE JOHNNY-CAKE. 

Little Sarah she stood by her grandmother's bed, 
" And what shall I get for your breakfast ? " she 

said. 
"You shall get me a johnny-cake; quickly go 

make it, 
In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it." 



184 FAVORITE POEMS. 

So Sarah she went to the closet to see 

If yet any meal in the barrel might be. 

The barrel had long time been empty as wind ; 

Not a speck of the bright yellow meal conld she 

find. 
But grandmother's johnny-cake — still she mnst 

make it, 
In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it. 

She ran to the shop ; but the shopkeeper said, 
" I have none — you must go to the miller, fair 

maid; 
For he has a mill, and he'll put the corn in it, 
And grind you some nice yellow meal in a min- 
ute ; 
But run, or the johnny-cake, how will you make 

it, 
In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it? " 

Then Sarah she ran every step of the way, 
But the miller said, " No, I have no meal to-day ; 
Bun, quick, to the corn-field, just over the hill, 
And if any be there, you may fetch it to mill. 
Run, run, or the johnny-cake, how will you make 

it, 
In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it? " 

She ran to the corn-field — the corn had not grown, 
Though the sun in the blue sky all pleasantly 
shone. 



THE JOHNNY-CAKE. 185 

"Pretty sun," cried the maiden, "please make 

the corn grow." 
" Pretty maid, " the sun answered, " I cannot do 

so." 
"Then grandmother's johnny-cake, how shall I 

make it, 
In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it? " 

Then Sarah looked round, and she saw what she 

wanted ; 
The corn could not grow, for no corn had been 

planted. 
She asked of the farmer to sow her some grain, 
But the farmer he laughed till his sides ached 

again. 
"Ho! ho! for the johnny-cake, — how can you 

make it, 
In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it? " 

The farmer he laughed, and he laughed out 

loud, — 
"And how can I plant till the earth has been 

ploughed? 
Run, run to the ploughman, and bring him with 

speed ; 
He'll plough up the ground, and I'll fill it with 

seed." 
Away, then, ran Sarah, still hoping to make it, 
In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it. 



186 FAVORITE POEMS. 

The ploughman lie ploughed, and the grain it 

was sown, 
And the sun shed his rays till the corn was all 

grown. 
It was ground at the mill, and again in her bed 
These words to poor Sarah the grandmother said : 
"You shall get me a johnny-cake — quickly go 

make it, 
In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it." 

Unknown. 



THE CLOCKING HEN. 

" Will you take a walk with me, 

My little wife, to-day? 
There's barley in the barley-field, 

And hay-seed in the hay." 

" Thank you," said the clocking hen ; 

" I've something else to do ; 
I'm busy sitting on my eggs, 

I cannot walk with you." 

"Clock, clock, clock, clock-" 

Said the clocking hei. 
" My little chicks will soon }e hatched, 

111 think about it then." 






CHILD AXD MOTHER. 187 

The clocking hen sat on her nest, 

She made it in the hay ; 
And warm and snug beneath her breast, 

A dozen white eggs lav. 

Crack, crack, went all the eggs, 

Out dropt the chickens small ! 
"dock," said the clocking hen, 

" Now I have you all. 

" Come along, my little chicks, 

I'll take a walk with you." 
" Hollo ! " said the barn-door cock, 

"Cock-a-doodle-do!" 

Aunt Effle's Rhymes. 



CHILD AXD MOTHER. 

Love thy mother, little one ! 

Kiss and clasp her neck again ! 
Hereafter she may have a son 

Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. 
Love thy mother, little one ! 



188 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Gaze upon her living eyes, 

And mirror "back her love for thee ! 

Hereafter thou inay'st shudder sighs 
To meet them when they cannot see. 
Gaze upon her living eyes ! 

Press her lips, the while they glow, 
With love that they have often told ! 

Hereafter thou inay'st press in woe, 
And kiss them till thine own are cold. 
Press her lips, the while they glow ! 

Oh, revere her raven hair, — 
Although it be not silver gray ! 

Too early, Death, led on "by care, 
May snatch save one dear lock away. 
Oh, revere her raven hair ! 

Pray for her at eve and morn, 

That heaven may long the stroke defer ; 
For thou rnay'st live the hour forlorn, 

When thou wilt ask to die with her. 
Pray for her at eve and morn ! 

Thomas Hood. 



THE SPIDER AXD THE FLY. 189 



THE SPIDER AND THE FLY. 



" Will you walk into the parlor ? " 

Said a spider to a fly ; 
" 'Tis the prettiest little parlor 

That ever you did spy. 
The way into the parlor 

Is up a winding stair, 
And I have many pretty things, 

To show when you are there." 
" Oh no, no ! " said the little fly, 

" To ask me is in vain ; 
For who goes up your winding stair, 

Can ne'er come down again." 

"I'm sure you must be weary 

With soaring up so high ; 
Will you rest upon my little bed? " 

Said the spider to the fly. 
" There are pretty curtains drawn around, 

The sheets are fine and thin ; 
And if you like to rest awhile, 

I'll snugly tuck you in." 
" Oh no, no ! " said the little fly, 

" For I've often heard it said, 
They never, never wake again, 

Who sleep upon your bed." 



190 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Said the cunning spider to the fly, 

" Dear friend, what shall I do, 
To prove the warm affection 

I've always felt for you? 
I have within my pantry, 

Good store of all that's nice ; 
I'm sure you're very welcome — 

"Will you please to take a slice?" 
" Oh no, no ! " said the little fly, 

" Kind sir, that cannot be ; 
I've heard what's in your pantry, 

And I do not wish to see." 

" Sweet creature," said the spider, 

" You're witty and you're wise ; 
How handsome are your gauzy wings- 

How brilliant are your eyes. 
I have a little looking-glass 

Upon my parlor shelf ; 
If you'll step in one moment, dear, 

You shall behold yourself." 
"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, 

"For what you're pleased to say, 
And bidding you good-morning, now, 

I'll call another day." 

The spider turned him round about, 

And went into his den, 
For well he knew the silly fly 

Would soon be back again ; 






THE SPIDER AND THE FLY. 191 

So he wove a subtle thread 

In a little corner sly, 
And set his table ready 

To dine upon the fly. 
He went out to his door again, 

And merrily did sing, 
" Come hither, hither, pretty fly, 

With the pearl and silver wing ; 
Your robes are green and purple, 

There's a erest upon your head ; 
Your eyes are like the diamond bright,. 

But mine are dull as lead." 

Alas, alas ! how very soon 

This silly little fly, 
Hearing his wily, flattering words, 

Came slowly flitting by : 
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, 

Then near and nearer drew — 
Thought only of her brilliant eyes, 

And green and purple hue ; 
Thought only of her crested head, — 

Poor foolish thing ! At last 
Up jumped the cunning spider. 

And fiercely held her fast. 

He dragged her up his winding stair, 

Into his dismal den. 
Within his little parlor — but 

She ne'er came out again ! 



192 FAVORITE POEMS. 

And now, dear little children 

Who may this story read, 
To idle, silly, flattering words, 

I pray you, ne'er give heed : 
Unto an evil counsellor 

Close heart and ear and eye, 
And learn a lesson from this tale 

Of the spider and the fly. 

Mary Howitt, 



LITTLE BROWN HANDS. 

They drive home the cows from the pasture, 

Up through the long shady lane, 
Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields, 

That are yellow with ripening grain. 
They find, in the thick waving grasses, 

Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows. 
They gather the earliest snowdrops 

And the first crimson buds of the rose. 

They toss the new hay in the meadow ; 

They gather the elder-bloom white ; 
They find where the dusky grapes purple 

In the soft-tinted October light. 



LITTLE BROWN HANDS. 193 

They know where the apples hang ripest, 
And are sweeter than Italy's wines ; 

They know where the fruit hangs the thickest 
On the long, thorny blackberry-vines. 

They gather the delicate sea-weeds, 

And bnild tiny castles of sand ; 
They pick np the beautiful sea-shells, — 

Fairy barks that have drifted to land. 
They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops 

Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings ; 
And at night-time are folded in slumber 

By a song that a fond mother sings. 

Those who toil bravely are strongest ; 

The humble and poor become great ; 
And so from these brown-handed children 

Shall grow mighty rulers of state. 
The pen of the author and statesman, 

The noble and wise of the land, — 
The sword, and the chisel, and palette, 

Shall be held in the little brown hand. 

M. H. Krout. 



194 FAVORITE POEMS. 



BOATS SAIL ON THE RIVERS. 

Boats sail on the rivers, 

And ships sail on the seas ; 
But clouds that sail across the sky 

Are prettier far than these. 

There are bridges on the rivers, 

As pretty as you please ; 
But the bow that bridges heaven, 

And overtops the trees, 
And builds a road from earth to sky, 

Is prettier far than these. 

Christina Rossettl 






THE TWO BOYS. 

I saw a boy with eager eye 
Open a book upon a stall, 
And read as he'd devoured it all : 
Which when the stall-man did espy, 
Soon to the boy I heard him call, 



THE SXOW-BIED. 195 

" You sir, you never buy a book, 
Therefore in one you shall not look." 
The boy passed slowly on, and with a sigh 
He wished he never had been taught to read, 
Then of the old churl's books he should have had 
no need. 

Of sufferings the poor have many, 

Which never can the rich annoy. 

I soon perceived another boy 

Who looked as if he'd not had any 

Food for that day at least, enjoy 

The sight of cold meat in a tavern-larder. 

The boy's case, thought I, is surely harder, 

Thus hungry longing, thus without a penny, 

Beholding choice of dainty dressed meat : 

No wonder if he wished he ne'er had learned to 

eat. 

Charles Lamb. 



THE SNOW-BIRD. 

When all the ground with snow is white, 
The merry snow-bird comes, 

And hops about with great delight 
To find the scattered crumbs. 



196 FAVORITE POEMS, 

How glad he seems to get to eat 

A piece of cake or bread ! 
He wears no shoes upon his feet. 

Nor hat upon his head. 

But happiest is he. I know. 

Because no cage with bars 
Keeps him from walking on the snow 

And printing it with stars. 

Frank Dempster Sherman. 






FOREIGN CHELDEEN. 

Little Indian. Sioux or Crow. 

Little frosty Eskimo. 

Little Turk or Japanee, 

! don't you wish that you were me? 

You have seen the scarlet trees 
And the lions over seas : 
You have eaten ostrich eggs, 
And turned the turtles off their legs. 

Such a life is very fine. 
But it's not as nice as mine : 
You must often, as you trod. 
Have wearied not to be abroad. 



PERSEVERANCE. 197 

You have curious things to eat, 

I am fed on proper meat ; 

You must dwell beyond the foam, 

But I am safe and live at home. 

Little Indian, Sioux or Crow, 

Little frosty Eskimo, 

Little Turk or Japanee, 

O ! don't you wish that you were me ? 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 



PERSEVERANCE. 

Here's a lesson all should heed — 

Tl T> try, try again. 
If at first you don't succeed, 

Try, try, try again. 
Let your courage well appear ; 
If you only persevere, 
You will conquer, never fear — 

Try, try, try again. 

Twice or thrice though you should fail, 

Try again. 
If at last you would prevail, 

Try again. 



198 FAVOEITE POFATS. 

When you strive, there's no disgrace, 
Though you fail to win the race ; 
Bravely then, in such a case, 
Try, try, try again. 

Let the thing be e'er so hard, 

Try again. 
Time will surely bring reward — 

Try again. 
That which other folks can do, 
TVhy, with patience, may not you? 
Wliy, with patience, may not you f 
Try, Try, Try Again. 



LITTLE STAR. 

Twinkle, twinkle, little star; 
How I wonder what you are ! 
Up above the world so high, 
Like a diamond in the sky. 

"When the glorious sun is set, 
When the grass with dew is wet, 
Then you show your little light, 
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night. 



THE SOVEREIGNS OF ENGLAND. 199 

In the dark blue sky you keep, 
And often through my curtains peep ; 
For you never shut your eye 
Till the sun is in the sky. 

As your bright and tiny spark 
Lights the traveller through the dark, 
Though I know not what you are, 
Twinkle, twinkle, little star. 

Unknown. 



THE SOVEREIGNS OF ENGLAND. 

First, William the Norman, 
Then William his son ; 
Henry, Stephen, and Henry, 
Then Richard and John. 
Next, Henry the third, 
Edwards, one, two, and three. 
And again, after Richard, 
Three Henrys we see. 
Two Edwards, third Richard, 
If rightly I guess ; 
Two Henrys, sixth Edw T ard, 
Queen Mary, Queen Bess ; 



200 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Then Jamie the Scotchman, 
Then Charles whom they slew, 
Yet received, after Cromwell, 
Another Charles too. 
Next Jamie the second 
Ascended the throne ; 
Then good William and Mary 
Together came on ; 
Then Anne, Georges four, 
And fourth William all passed, 
And Victoria came — 
May she long last. 

Unknown. 



MY MOTHER. 

Who fed me from her gentle breast, 
And hushed me in her arms to rest, 
And on my cheek sweet kisses press'd 
My mother. 

When sleep forsook my open eye, 
Who was it sang sweet hushaby, 
And rocked me that I should not cry? 
My mother. 



MY MO THEE. 201 

Who sat and watched my infant head, 
When sleeping on my cradle bed, 
And tears of sweet affection shed? 
My mother. 

When pain and sickness made me cry, 
Who gazed npon my heavy eye, 
And wept for fear that I should die ? 
My mother. 

Who dress'd my doll in clothes so gay, 
And taught me pretty how to play, 
And minded all I had to say? 
My mother. 

Who ran to help me when I fell, 
And would some pretty story tell, 
Or kiss the place to make it well? 
My mother. 

Who taught my infant lips to pray, 
And love God's holy book and day, 
And walk in wisdom's pleasant way ? 
My mother. 

And can I ever cease to be 
Affectionate and kind to thee, 
Who wast so very kind to me ? 
My mother. 



202 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Ah no ! the thought I cannot bear, 
And if God please my life to spare, 
I hope I shall reward thy care, 
My mother. 

When thou art feeble, old, and gray, 
My healthy arms shall be thy stay, 
And I will soothe thy pains away, 
My mother. 

And when I see thee hang thy head, 
7 Twill be my turn to watch thy bed, 
And tears of sweet affection shed, 
My mother. 

For God, who lives above the skies, 
Would look with vengeance in His eyes 
If I should ever dare despise 
My mother. 

Ann Taylor. 



LET DOGS DELIGHT TO BARK AND 
BITE. 

Let dogs delight to bark and bite, 
For God hath made them so ; 



LET DOGS DELIGHT. 203 

Let bears and lions growl and fight, 
For 'tis their nature to ; 

But, children, you should never let 

Such angry passions rise ; 
Your little hands were never made 

To tear each other's eyes. 

Let love through all your actions run, 

And all your words be mild ; 
Live like the blessed Virgin's Son, 

That sweet and lovely Child. 

His soul was gentle as a lamb ; 

And, as His stature grew, 
He grew in favor both with man 

And God His Father too. 

Now, Lord of all, He reigns above, 

And from His heavenly throne 
He sees what children dwell in love, 

And marks them for his own. 

Isaac Watts. 



204 FAVORITE POEMS. 



GOING INTO BEEECHES. 

Joy to Philip ! he this day 
Has his long coats cast away, 
And (the childish season gone) 
Puts the manly breeches on. 
Officer on gay parade, 
Red-coat in his first cockade, 
Bridegroom in his wedding trim, 
Birthday beau surpassing him, 
Never did with conscious gait 
Strut about in half the state 
Or the pride (yet free from sin), 
Of my little manikin : 
Never was there pride or bliss, 
Half so rational as his, 
Sashes, frocks, to those that need 'em- 
Philip's limbs have got their freedom. 
He can run or he can ride, 
And do twenty things beside, 
Which his petticoats forbade : 
Is he not a happy lad? 
Now he's under other banners, 
He must leave his former manners, 
Bid adieu to female games, 
And forget their very names — 






GOING INTO BREECHES. 205 

Puss-in-corners, hide-and-seek, 
Sports for girls and punies weak ! 
Baste-the-bear he now may play at ; 
Leap-frog, foot-ball, sport away at ; 
Show his strength and skill at cricket, 
Mark his distance, pitch his wicket ; 
Eun about in winter's snow 
Till his cheeks and fingers glow ; 
Climb a tree, or scale a wall, 
"Without any fear to fall. 
If he get a hurt or bruise, 
To complain he must refuse, 
Though the anguish and the smart 
Go unto his little heart. 
He must have his courage ready, 
Keep his voice and visage steady, 
Brace his eyeballs stiff as drum, 
That a tear may never come ; 
And his grief must only speak 
From the color in his cheek. 
This and more he must endure — 
Hero he in miniature ! 
This and more must now be done, 
Now the breeches are pat on. 

Mary Lamb. 



206 FAVORITE POEMS. 



TEUTH. 

Boy, at all times tell the truth, 
Let no lie defile thy mouth ; 
If thou'rt wrong, be still the same — 
Speak the truth and bear the blame. 

Truth is honest, truth is sure ; 
Truth is strong, and must endure ; 
Falsehood lasts a single day, 
Then it vanishes away. 

Boy, at all times tell the truth, 
Let no lie defile thy mouth ; 
Truth is steadfast, sure, and fast — 
Certain to prevail at last. 

Unknown. 



TWO AND ONE. 

Two ears and only one mouth have you ; 

The reason, I think, is clear : 
It teaches, my child, that it will not do 

To talk about all you hear. 



THE MINUTES. 207 

Tico eyes and only one mouth have you ; 

The reason of this must be, 
That you should learn that it will not do 

To talk about all you see. 

Two hands and only one mouth have you ; 

And it is worth while repeating : 
The two are for work you will have to do — 

The one is enough for eating. 

Unknown. 



THE MINUTES. 

We are but minutes — little things, 
Each one furnished with sixty wings, 
With which we fly on our unseen track, 
And not a minute ever comes back. 

We are but minutes — yet each one bears 
A little burden of joys and cares. 
Patiently take the minutes of pain — 
The worst of minutes cannot remain. 

We are but minutes — when we bring 
A few of the drops from pleasure's spring, 
Taste their sweetness while we stay — 
It takes but a minute to fly away. 



208 FAVORITE POEMS. 

We are but minutes — use us well, 
For how we are used we must one day tell ; 
Who uses minutes has hours to use — 
Who loses minutes whole years must lose. 

Unknown. 



LOVE ONE ANOTHER. 

Children, do you love each other? 

Are you always kind and true ? 
Do you always do to others 

As you'd have them do to you? 
Are you gentle to each other? 

Are you careful, day by day, 
Not to give offence by actions 

Or by anything you say? 

Little children, love each other, 

Never give another pain ; 
If your brother speak in anger, 

Answer not in wrath again. 
Be not selfish to each other — 

Never mar another's rest ; 
Strive to make each other happy, 

And you will yourselves be blest. 

Unknown. 



I LIKE LITTLE FUSSY. 209 



I LIKE LITTLE PUSSY. 

I like little Pussy, 

Her coat is so warm ; 
And if I don't hurt her 

She'll do me no harm. 
So I'll not pull her tail, 

Nor drive her away, 
But Pussy and I 

Very gently will play ; 
She shall sit by my side, 

And I'll give her some food ; 
And she'll love me because 

I am gentle and good. 

I'll pat little Pussy, 

And then she will purr, 
And thus show her thanks 

For my kindness to her ; 
I'll not pinch her ears, 

Nor tread on her paw, 
Lest I should provoke her 

To use her sharp claw ; 
I never will vex her, 

Nor make her displeased, 
For Pussy don't like 

To be worried or teased. 

Jane Taylor. 



210 FAVORITE POEMS. 



ROBIN REDBREAST. 

Good-bye, good-bye to summer, 

For summer's nearly done ; 
The garden smiling faintly, 

Cool breezes in the sun ; 
Our thrushes now are silent, 

Our swallows flown away ; 
But Robin's here, in coat of brown 

And scarlet breast-knot gay. 
Robin, Robin Redbreast, 

O Robin dear ! 
Robin sings so sweetly 

In the falling of the year. 

Bright yellow, red and orange, 

The leaves come down in hosts ; 
The trees are Indian princes, 

But soon they'll turn to ghosts ! 
The leathery pears and apples 

Hang russet on the bough ; 
It's autumn, autumn, autumn late ; 

'Twill soon be winter now. 
Robin, Robin Redbreast, 

O Robin dear I 
And what will this poor Robin do, 

For pinching days are near? 



ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. 211 

The fireside for the cricket, 

The wheat-stack for the mouse, 
When trembling night-winds whistle 

And moan all round the house. 
The frosty ways like iron, 

The branches plumed with snow — 
Alas ! in winter dead and dark 

Where can poor Robin go? 
Robin, Robin Redbreast, 

O Robin dear ! 
And a crumb of bread for Robin, 

His little heart to cheer. 

William Allixgham. 



ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. 

Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, 

the dove, 
The linnet and thrush, say, " I love and I love ! " 
In the winter they're silent, the wind is so strong ; 
What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud 

song. 
But green leaves and blossoms and sunny warm 

weather, 
And singing and loving, all come back together. 



212 FAVORITE POEMS. 

But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, 
The green fields below him, the blue sky above, 
That he sings and he sings, and forever sings he, 
"I love my love, and my love loves me." 

Samuel T. Coleridge. 



THE DOG OF ST. BERNARD'S. 

One stormy night, upon the Alps, 

A traveller, weak and old, 
Walked sadly on through ice and snow, 

And shivered with the cold. 

His eyes were dim with weariness, 
His steps were short and slow ; 

At length he laid him down to sleep, 
Upon a bed of snow. 

Before he closed his aching eyes, 

He heard a cheerful bark ; 
A faithful dog was by his side 

To guide him through the dark. 

And soon beside the fire he stood, 

And earnestly he prayed 

For those who trained that noble dog, 

And sent him to his aid. 

Unknown. 



THE BUSY BEE. 213 



v ' HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE. 



How doth the little busy bee 

Improve each shining hour, 
And gather honey all the day 

From every opening flower ! 

How skilfully she builds her cell ! 

How neat she spreads her wax ! 
And labors hard to store it well 

With the sweet food she makes. 

In works of labor or of skill 

I would be busy too, 
For Satan finds some mischief still 

For idle hands to do. 

In books or work, or healthful play 

Let my first years be past, 
That I may give for every day 

Some good account at last. 

Isaac Watts. 



214 FAVORITE POEMS, 



THE MONTHS. 



January brings the snow, 
Makes our feet and fingers glow ; 
February brings the rain, 
Thaws the frozen lake again ; 
March brings breezes loud and shrill, 
Stirs the dancing daffodil ; 
April brings the primrose sweet, 
Scatters daisies at our feet ; 
May brings flocks of pretty lambs, 
Skipping by their fleecy dams ; 
June brings tulips, lilies, roses, 
Fills the children's hands with posies ; 
Hot July brings cooling showers, 
Apricots and gilliflowers ; 
August brings the sheaves of corn, 
Then the harvest home is borne ; 
Warm September brings the fruit, — 
Sportsmen then begin to shoot ; 
Fresh October brings the pheasant, — 
Then to gather nuts is pleasant ; 
Dull November brings the blast, — 
Then the leaves are whirling fast ; 
Chill December brings the sleet. 
Blazing fire, and Christmas treat. 

Sara Coleridge. 






THE NEW MOON. 215 



THE NEW MOON. 

Dear mother, how pretty 
The moon looks to-night ! 

She was never so cunning before ; 
Her two little horns 
Are so sharp and so bright, 

I hope she'll not grow any more. 

If I were up there 

With you and my friends, 
I'd rock in it nicely, you'd see ; 

I'd sit in the middle 

And hold by both ends ; 
Oh, what a bright cradle 'twould be ! 

I would call to the stars 
To keep out of the way, 

Lest we should rock over their toes ; 
And then I would rock 
Till the dawn of the day, 

And see where the pretty moon goes. 

And there we would stay 
In the beautiful skies, 
And through the bright clouds we would roam 



216 FAVORITE FOE1 

We w o edd see the snn set, 

And see the sun ris e . 
And on the next rainbow come home. 






<:el:stva.- bells. 

Hark ! the Christinas bells are ringing — 

Ringing through the frosty air — 
Happiness to each one bringing, 
And release from toil and care. 

How the merry peal is swelling 

From the gray old crumbling tower, 

To the simplest creature telling 
Of Almighty love and power. 

A n V ie-deep the sn yw is lying, 
Every spray is clothed in white, 

Yet abroad the folk are hieing, 
Brisk and busy, gay and light. 

Now fresh helps and aids are offered 

To the aged and the poor, 
And rare I -exchanges proffered 

At the lowliest cottage door. 






THE BABES IX THE WOOD. ±17 



71-- ~ i_--> !L:.-~n.— ' -L> :-r.r :n_j_u 
— 
_-.::_ i:: : to:: 7 • :i ~ ■ : : — -.: — 






My dear, do yon know 

H ■ ~ -, . ■:._• ~ii_r 

Two poor tittle children. 

~^7 • — i. -.ii.-- I : _ - in. :~. 

On a fine summer's day, 
And left in a wood. 
As Tve heard people so 

And when it was night. 



218 FAVORITE POEMS. 

The sun it went down, 
And the moon gave no light ! 
They sobbed, and they sighed, 
And they bitterly cried, 
And the poor little things 
They lay down and died. 

And when they were dead, 
The robins so red 
Bronght strawberry-leaves 
And over them spread ; 
And all the day long, 
They sang them this song, — 
Poor babes in the wood ! 
Poor babes in the wood ! 
And don't yon remember 
The babes in the wood? 

Unknown. 



TEDDY. 

Teddy-boy by the window stands 

Watching the leaves as they downward fall. 
"Watching the shadows as they gather so fast, 

And hearing the birds to their children call. 



TEDDY. 219 

What is my little boy thinking about, 

Standing so silently there ? 
And why those tears in his pretty blue eyes, 

And that frown on his forehead so fair? 



Teddy is trying perhaps to forget 

That a boy he knows of, and just his size, 
Has been very naughty, — so much so, indeed, 

That the little boy's mamma had tears in her 
eyes. 
But Ted can't forget, though he tries very hard, 

And he thinks his mamma might speak, 
And he wishes it wouldn't grow dark so soon, 

And — a tear rolls down his cheek. 

The little brown birds to their children call, 

But no one calls, " Teddy, come here, my pet ! " 
And mother's kisses and twilight songs 

Are good things Teddy can never forget. 
But kisses and songs are for good little boys, 

So Teddy must go without, 
Unless he is sorry and says so — then 

Mamma will forgive him, no doubt. 

Oh, fast fall the shadows, and fast fall the tears 
Down a pair of cheeks flushing so red, 

And presently — " Teddy's sorry ! " sobs he, 
And mother's breast pillows a golden head. 



220 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Then fast fall the kisses on cheek and "brow, 
And though it is twilight, you know, 

Yet to Teddy and mamma the sunshine has 
come 
Like the warmth of a noon day's glow. 

Unknown. 



BABY MINE. 

Baby mine, with the grave, grave face, 
Where did you get that royal calm, 
Too staid for joy, too still for grace? 
I bend as I kiss your pink, soft palm, 
Are you the first of a nobler race, 

Baby mine ? 

You come from the region of long ago, 
And gazing awhile where the seraphs dwell 
Has given your face a glory and glow. 
Of that brighter land have you aught to tell ? 
I seem to have known it ; I more would know, 

Baby mine. 
Frederick Locker. 



BEAUTIFUL GRANDMAMMA. 221 



BEAUTIFUL GRANDMAMMA. 

Grandmamma sits in her quaint arm-chair ; 
Never was lady more sweet and fair ; 
Her gray locks ripple like silver shells, 
And her own brow its story tells 
Of a gentle life and peaceful even, 
A trust in God, and a hope in heaven. 

Little girl Mary sits rocking away 

In her own low seat, like some winsome fay ; 

Two doll "babies her kisses share, 

And another one lies by the side of her chair ; 

May is as fair as the morning dew, 

Cheeks of roses, and ribbons of blue. 

"Say, Grandmamma," says the pretty elf, 

" Tell me a story about yourself. 

When you were little, what did you play? 

Were you good or naughty the whole long day ? 

Was it hundreds and hundreds of years ago ? 

And what makes your soft hair as white as snow ? 

" Did you have a mamma to hug and kiss ? 
And a dolly like this, and this, and this? 
Did you have a pussy like my little Kate ? 
Did you go to bed when the clock struck eight ? 
Did you have long curls, and beads like mine? 
And a new silk apron with ribbons fine?" 



222 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Grandmamma smiled at the little maid, 
And laying aside her knitting, she said : 
" Go to my desk, and a red box you'll see ; 
Carefully lift it, and bring it to me." 
So May put her dollies away, and ran, 
Saying, "HI be careful as ever I can." 

Then Grandmamma opened the box, and lo ! 
A beautiful child with throat like snow, 
Lips just tinted like pink shells rare, 
Eyes of hazel, and golden hair, 
Hand all dimpled, and teeth like pearls — 
Fairest and sweetest of little girls. 

"Oh ! who is it?" cried winsome May, 
" How I wish she were here to-day ! 
Wouldn't I love her like everything ; 
Wouldn't I with her frolic and sing ! 
Say, dear Grandmamma, who can she be ? " 
"Darling," said Grandmamma, "I was she." 

May looked long at the dimpled grace, 

And then at the saint-like, fair old face : 

" How funny ! " she cried, with a smile and a kiss. 

"To have such a dear little grandma as this ! 

Still," she added with smiling zest, 

" I think, dear Grandma, I like you best." 

So May climbed on the silken knee, 
And Grandmamma told her history : 



THE LAST DAY OF THE YEAR. 223 

What plays she played, what toys she had, 
How at times she was naughty, or good, or sad. 
"But the best thing you did/' said May, "don't 

you see? 
Was to grow a beautiful Grandma for me." 

Anonymous. 



THE LAST DAY OF THE YEAR. 

Come, bairns, come all to the frolic play, 
To-morrow, you know, is New- Year's day ; 

The cold winds blow, 

And down falls the snow, 
But merrily, merrily dance away. 

There's Johnny Frost with his head so white. 
Would fain be in the warm firelight ; 

But if he should try, 

Up the chimney he'd fly, 
And thaw full quickly out of our sight ! 

He's stopped the streamlet's noisy brawl, 
Hung frost-work o'er the waterfall ; 

The flowers are all dead, 

And the wee birds fled, 
But they'll all be back at the sweet Spring's call. 



224 FAVORITE POEMS. 

We'll not sleep a wink till the year conies in, 
Till the clock strikes twelve and the fnn begin ; 

And then with a cheer 

To the new-born year, 
How the streets will ring with the roaring din ! 

A blithe new year we wish yon all, 
And many retnrns to bless yon all, 

And may each one you see 

Aye merrier be, 
While round the fire we greet you all. 

So, bairns, come all to the frolic play, 
To-morrow, you know, is New- Year's day ; 

Though the cold winds blow, 

And down falls the snow, 
Yet merrily, merrily dance away. 

Alexander Smart 



ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PEAYER. 

? Twas the eve before Christmas, 

" Good-night " had been said, 

And Annie and Willie had crept into bed 



ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER. 225 

There were tears on their pillows, and tears in 

their eyes, 
And each little bosom was heaving with sighs ; 
For to-night their stern father's command had 

been given 
That they should retire precisely at seven — 
Instead of at eight — for they troubled him more 
With questions unheard of than ever bofore. 
He had told them he thought this delusion a sin, 
No such creature as "Santa Clans" ever had 

been; 
And he hoped, after this, he should never more 

hear 
How he scrambled down chimneys with presents 

each year. 
And this was the reason that two little heads 
So restlessly tossed on their soft downy beds. 
Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled 

ten; 
Not a word had been spoken by either till then ; 
When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep, 
And whispered, " dear Annie, is 'ou fast as'eep ? " 
"Why, no, brother Willie," a sweet voice replies, 
"I've long tried in vain, but I can't shut my 

eyes ; 
For somehow it makes me so sorry because 
Dear papa has said there is no ' Santa Claus.' 
Now we know there is, and it can't be denied, 
For he came every year before mamma died ; 



?26 FAVORITE POEMS. 

But then I've been thinking that she used to pray, 
And God would hear everything mamma would 

say, 
And maybe she ask'd Him to send Santa Claus 

here 
"With the sack full of presents he brought every 

year." 
" "Well why tan't we p'ay, dust as mamma did den, 
And ask Dod to send him with presents aden?" 
" I've been thinking so too," — and without a word 

more 
Four little bare feet bounded out on the floor, 
And four little knees the soft carpet pressed, 
And two tiny hands were clasp'd close to each 

breast. 
" Now, Willie, you know we must firmly believe 
That the presents we ask for we're sure to re- 
ceive : 
You must wait very still till I say the 'Amen/ 
And by that you will know that your turn has 

come then. 
Dear Jesus look down on my brother and me, 
And grant us the favor we're asking of Thee. 
I want a wax dolly, a tea-set, and ring, 
And an ebony work-box that shuts with a spring ; 
Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to see 
That Santa Claus loves us as much as does he : 
Don't let him get fretful and angry again 
At dear brother Willie and Annie. Amen." 



ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER. 227 

"P'ease, Desus, 'et Santa Taus turn down to- 
night, 

And b'ing us some presents before it is ? ight ; 

I want he s'ood div' me a nice 'ittle s'ed, 

Wid b'ight shinin' 'unners, and all painted 'ed ; 

A box full of tandy, a book, and a toy, 

Amen. And den, Desus, Fll be a dood boy." 

Their prayers being ended, they raised np their 
heads, 

And, with hearts light and cheerful, again sought 
their beds. 

They were soon lost in slumber, both peaceful 
and deep, 

And with fairies in Dreamland were roaming in 
sleep. 

Eight, nine, and the little French clock had 

struck ten, 
Ere the father had thought of his children again : 
He seems now to hear Annie's half-suppressed 

sighs, 
And to see the big tears in Willie's blue eyes. 
"I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally 

said, 
" And should not have sent them so early to bed ; 
But then I was troubled : my feelings found 

vent ; 
For bank-stock to-day has gone down ten per 

cent. : 



228 FAVORITE POEMS. 

But of course they've forgotten their troubles ere 

this, 
And that I denied them the thrice-asked-for kiss. 
But, just to make sure, I'll steal up to their door — 
To my darlings I never spoke harshly before.' 7 

So saying, he softly ascended the stairs, 

And arrived at the door to hear both of their 

prayers ; 
His Annie's "Bless papa" drew forth the big 

tears, 
And Willie's grave promise fell sweet on his ears. 
" Strange ! strange ! I'd forgotten," said he, with 

a sigh, 
" How I longed when a child to have Christmas 

draw nigh. 
I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said, 
" By answering their prayers ere I sleep in my 

bed." 
Then he turned to the stairs and softly went 

down, 
Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing-gown, 
Donned hat, coat, and boots, and was out in the 

street — 
A millionaire facing the cold driving sleet ! 
Nor stopped he until he had bought everything, 
From the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring : 
Indeed, he kept adding so much to his store 
That the various presents outnumbered a score. 



- 



AXXIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER. 229 



Then homeward he turned, when his holiday load 
With Aunt Mary's help, in the nursery was 

stowed. 
Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine tree, 
By the side of a table spread out for her tea ; 
A work-box, well filled, in the centre was laid, 
And on it the ring for which Annie had prayed ; 
A soldier in uniform stood by a sled 
"With bright shining runners, and all painted 

red." 
There were balls, dogs, and horses ; books pleas- 
ing to see ; 
And birds of all colors were perched in the tree ; 
While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the top, 
As if getting ready more presents to drop. 
Now as the fond father the picture surveyed, 
He thought for his trouble he'd amply been 

paid; 
And he said to himself, as he brushed off a tear, 
" I'm happier to-night than I've been for a year ; 
I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before ; 
What care I if bank-stock falls ten per cent. 

more? 
Hereafter I'll make it a rule, I believe, 
To have Santa Claus visit us each Christmas 
Eve." 

So thinking, he gently extinguished the light. 
And, tripping downstairs, retired for the night. 



230 FAVORITE POEMS, 

As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun 
Put the darkness to flight, and the stars one by 

one, 
Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide, 
And at the same moment the presents espied ; 
Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound, 
And the very gifts prayed for were all of them 

found. 
They laughed and they cried in their innocent 

glee, 
And shouted for papa to come quick and see 
What presents old Santa Claus brought in the 

night 
(Just the things that they wanted !), and left be- 
fore light. 
" And now," added Annie, in voice soft and low, 
"You'll believe there's a Santa Claus, papa, I 

know ; " 
While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee, 
Determined no secret between them should be, 
And told, in soft whispers, how Annie had said 
That their dear blessed mamma, so long ago 

dead, 
Used to kneel down and pray by the side of her 

chair, 
And that Grod up in heaven had answered her 

prayer. 
" Den we dot up and p'ayed dust as well as we 

tood, 



THE TWO LITTLE KITTENS. 231 

And Dod answered our prayers ; now wasn't He 
dood?" 

"I should say that He was, if He sent you all 
these, 

And knew just what presents my children would 
please. 

(Well, well, let him think so, the dear little elf ! 

'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself.)" 

Blind father ! who caused your stern heart to re- 
lent, 

And the hasty words spoken so soon to repent ? 

'Twas the Being who bade you steal softly up- 
stairs, 

And made you His agent to answer their prayers. 

Sophia P. Sxow. 



THE TWO LITTLE KITTENS. 

Two little kittens, one stormy night, 
Began to quarrel, and then to fight ; 
One had a mouse, and the other had none, 
And that's the way the quarrel begun. 

"I'll have that mouse," said the biggest cat. 
You'U have that mouse? we'll see about that ! " 



232 FAVORITE POEMS. 

"I will have that mouse," said the eldest son; 
" You shan't have that mouse," said the little one. 

I told you before 'twas a stormy night 
When these two little kittens began to fight ; 
The old woman seized her sweeping broom, 
And swept the two kittens right out of the room. 

The ground was covered with frost and snow, 
And the two little kittens had nowhere to go ; 
So they laid them down on the mat at the door, 
While the old woman finished sweeping the floor. 

Then they crept in, as quiet as mice, 
All wet with snow, and as cold as ice, 
For they found it was better, that stormy night, 
To lie down and sleep than to quarrel and fight. 

Unknown. 



ANTI-CLIMAX. 

I walked a city street, and suddenly 
I saw a tiny lad. The winter wind 
Howled fitfully, and all the air above 






ANTI-CLIMAX. 233 

The clear cut outline of the buildings tall 
Seemed full of knives that cut against the face : 
An awful night among the unhoused poor ! 
The boy was tattered; both his hands were 

thrust 
For show of warmth within his pocket holes, 
"Where pockets had not been for many a day. 
One trouser leg was long enough to hide 
The naked flesh, but one, in mockery 
A world too short, tho' he was monstrous small, 
Left bare and red his knee — a cruel thing ! 
Then swelled my selfish heart with tenderness, 
And pity for the waif : to think of one 
So young, so seeming helpless, homeless, too, 
Breasting the night, a-shiver with the cold ! 
Gaining a little, soon I passed him by, 
My fingers reaching for a silver coin 
To make him happier, if only for 
An hour, when — I marvelled as I heard — 
His mouth was puckered up in cheery wise, 
And in the very teeth of fortune's frown 
He whistled loud a scrap of some gay tune ! 
And I must know that all my ready tears 
Fell on a mood more merry than mine own. 

Richard E. Burton. 



234 FAVORITE POEMS, 



GOOD-NIGHT TO BABY. 

Where is Babe to-night? — I miss her. 
"Where is little Bright Eyes ? bless her ! 
Bend over her cot and kiss her, 
Say "Good-night" to Baby. 

Say "Good-night," though she be sleeping; 
Listening cherubs will be peeping 
Through God's windows, fondly keeping 
Loving watch o'er Baby. 

They will catch the words with pleasure, 
Floating downward through the azure ; 
They will cluster round your treasure, 
Whispering them to Baby. 

They will tell her many a story 
Of their Golden City's glory — 
Wiser than her grandsire hoary, 
Happy little Baby ! 

Purer sight to her is given, 
All the star-nailed gates are riven, 
Opening up a view of Heaven 
In her dreams to Baby. 

Thomas Bracken. 



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